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Snow comes, swirling in the coming dark outside
I turn to watch it, framed by plate-glass windows, while
a good-looking young man makes my espresso drink, and
the girl he works with, who has a famous-sounding voice
that I can't place
turns to watch it too, and in the absence
of any other customers
and the abrupt quiet of the shop, from the Christmas
CD ending, and the hissing steam of the
espresso machine and the refrigeration case cycling off,
it feels as if someone had turned everything off for the night, the whole town,
and left us there, forgotten
without any smiling banter to define our
snowy-evening, holiday-time, shopkeeper and patron relationship -
we look at each other, a little uneasily,
like meeting in the morning in the kitchen, in daylight, finding a glass of water
after a one-night stand
well, hello, how are you -

the real me, and the real you -

we all laugh, a little awkwardly,
and the good-looking young man starts the music back up
and the girl begins to re-arrange the counter, and rinse things out in the sink, and
I remember my bags, and wish everyone a Merry Christmas, and push the wooden door open -

I step down onto the brick sidewalk, already covered
in a light layer of snow, and the wind
blows snowflakes down into my bags, and straight into my face and eyes, and also
down into my collar, making
cold little kisses on my neck -
I walk away from the shop, and
into the intimate darkness.