The Coffee Shop on 4th Street
The coffee tasted the same as it always did. Slightly burnt, slightly weak, with a metallic aftertaste that Frank had never been able to identify and had stopped trying to. He stood behind the counter of the Fourth Street Diner, wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time, watching the morning rush file in. Two construction workers who wanted black coffee and eggs over-easy. A woman...
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