We talk, and watch too: Outside all is wet thick slush, filthy traffic and foreign pastries. Bookstores and hair salons, florists and pedestrians. There is a slight draft from the café's large window. The window reminds me of the one we had in the house by the Orchard. It's not that I can see clearly my surroundings through the steamy window, through the smoke and the night; it's not even that I can remember my surroundings beyond the walls of this café.