It's always on the coldest nights that you find the warmest places, and you've learned of this one because Jan and Gabrielle work across the street. But it's Pavel--with his long, but meticulously barbered hair, and neat, stylish goatee--who frequents the establishment the most. "We go," he says, in English, though you can't exactly place his accent. He apologizes for the grammatical mistakes he never makes. "English is too many thorns on my tongue," he explains with a shrug, and you can imagine him making the typical gesture of exasperation--the one gesture you see in Prague on a daily basis. He doesn't waggle his head, roll his eyes and throw his palms into the air only to have them flap back down and crackle against his crisp, expensive jeans. He doesn't do that at all, but you see the implications of that in the faintest gesture of his fingers. You don't speak Czech very well, but you have learned to read verbs in Czech flesh, eyes, and expressions. You read him now, as the scent of some expensive cologne wafts into your nostrils like the faintest possible caress. In that moment you realize his inclinations are more amatory than mundane, and it comforts you as you realize that YES--he is a true friend, and outside of the boundaries of your life, there is a place for him--expensive though it may be. You enter the pricey, post modern cafe, immediately washed in warmth and chattered conversations. He pays for your expensive dessert and exactingly prepared cappuccino tinged with ground pistachios that you spoon from the bottom of your cup after your drink is finished. He spies your battered post-card of Franz Kafka, sticking out of your pocket, and grins extravagantly. "Frantishek," he says. I've missed him. I am glad that both of you are back." In the moment that he says that, you believe it utterly and you simply smile. "For a short time, yes, but next spring, I will live here." You converse for two hours and then depart. You are not religious and so the story of Lot and his nameless wife means nothing of holy significance to you: you go against an unkind biblical proscription and look back at the place you've left. A vengeful and bloodthirsty murderer of cities isn't about to rain brimstone and fire onto some hapless place, and you do not turn into a pillar of salt for the sin of sentimentality. Pavel notices your backwards glance and cuffs you gently on the shoulder...his fingers linger for a second longer than mere politeness demands. "I will be broke next time," he says, and you realize that in an oblique way he has promised to go again with you to the place improbably named Coffee and Cigars. You smile and tell him that it doesn't matter. You'll buy dessert and coffee. Deep down inside, you begin your countdown. In six months, minus twelve seconds, you will be back to live and work here legally and permanently--and you can already taste the pistachios in your cappuccino. *** As always, thank you for reading, viewing, and commenting. If anyone ever visits Prague in the near future, this place, Coffee and Cigars is fantastic, though a wee bit pricey and over-trendy, but it's also where you go in Prague, with locals who also happen to be among the most unpretentiously cosmopolitan people on Earth. Hopefully you enjoy this image as much as I enjoyed making it last night.