Croissant flakes spill off of the wax paper intended to protect the oak wood table from such a disaster as I am currently making. The air inside is heavy and almost uncomfortably hot, but somehow it is cozy. I take another sip of my cocoa, prepared almost-lovingly by the kindly man behind the counter but the first few sips are, as per usual, just the frothy whipped cream.

It slips down my aching throat, leaving behind a thick, warm coat of dairy. My buttery hands leave marks on the pages of a brand new notebook, the cover of which is adorned with a golden Eiffel Tower and an inscription: Paris. I thought it was very Hemingway.

None of this decor should go together. The faux-French signage, posh marbled countertops, gilded railings, intricacies of the tiling and antique mirror should not match the love-scuffed legs of dark wooden tables and chairs, with 50s diner-style red backs and hammered gold studs. And yet… it does. It feels like a home adjoining two worlds, two eras, two lovers. It feels safe.

The constant whirring of the espresso machine combines with hushed words to form a melodious white noise, allowing my mind to wander, to comb through my own memories, and to project them onto others. Here, on the hardwood bench that shouldn't be comfortable, my mind roams free in the frightening wilderness of my thoughts.

To me, this café is Sunday morning after church, my small family of four dressed to the nines. It is this same hot chocolate on the eighteen-minute drive home, my sister and me giggling in the backseat as we try to finish our drinks without acquiring a dark brown mustache.

And then someone shakes a canister of cinnamon excitedly, metal equipment clamors to the ground, and new customers fling open the door, the bell clanging in approval. It is 2018 again, and my family hasn't spent a morning here in what must be years. Everyone here, from the teenagers with sunglasses, exhibiting an alcohol-induced sensitivity to noise, to the three young children with a father eerily resembling Matthew McConaughey, is eating ice cream. It is 1:04 in the afternoon. Am I the only one still eating breakfast?

I notice the group of girls in the booth adjacent to mine, their tinkling laughs and lilting conversation mimicking the chatter of the coins in the cash register in the next room.

I wonder why they chose to come here today, of all places. No doubt the ice cream is delicious and the prices are unparalleled, but there has to be something more. Perhaps because it is a local establishment, utterly unpopulated by the hoards of tourists that seem omnipresent throughout the rest of town.

Now, a pajama-clad boy is gazing at me from behind wide, innocent eyes, as he smears a flavor of ice cream that I know to be m&m plain across his lips and cheeks. Ice Cream Boy’s baby brother, also pajama-clad, drops a spoon and begins garbling incoherently. It is only after his mother, a severe-looking woman, responds in a tongue I don't recognize. Later, I realize this family is foreign. But here, they feel at home.

And suddenly I know why those teenagers chose to come here this morning, why all the patrons chose to come: it is comfort and familiarity and human engagement in times of discord, in an age of digitally-fueled detachment where every man is an island.

All that’s left of my breakfast now is emptiness. A cup with dregs of cocoa too bitter and concentrated to consume. Wax paper with the browned flakes of a pastry that sabotaged my attempts at healthy eating. A used bag containing nothing but the ancient history of my meal.