I have this idea of an old man stopping by a coffee shop window and looking in on youth on the inside. He’s cold and shivering because his coat is too thin and his blood doesn’t run fast enough. He’s slowing down, but won’t go inside to warm his chill. Instead, he tolerates the cold.
There is a beautiful girl with smooth skin on the inside. She whispers, “Hello, Sir.”
They never meet. He smiles back, maybe.
There’s youth and age. There’s warmth and cold. There’s a clear window pane that divides the two. But, what is between them other than years?
When did he become content? When does she stop wanting?