The demitasse cup of thick, sludgy espresso stopped midway between the saucer and Patrick Fenton's slightly parted lips. His arm froze and he felt cold; as if beads of fever-sweat covered his forehead. He stared past his luncheon companions, across the tiny French restaurant, through the front window that faced onto East 56th Street, eyes widened; as the old man strode by outside.
- From The Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Harlan Ellison
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