The sign above the restaurant says Cafe.  Tucked between the frosted mountains, it sits snugly in the valley between a post office, straight from the turn of the century, and a novelty boutique shop full of overpriced nick knacks, custom license plates that never have my name, and bumper stickers with cheesy slogans that begin with “happiness is…”  The town is so small you’d miss it if you blinked, but that’s the way with mountain towns.
I pull open the heavy doors, and my frost bitten, cherry red nose is immediately greeted by the heat of a blasting furnace.  I shake the snow off my boots; it puddles on the carpeted floor beneath my feet.  It takes a full five minutes for anyone to acknowledge me, and I’m surprised because I expected a full ten.
The walls are decked in Christmas decor: twinkling lights, tinsel, and stiff red bows.  Bottle cap snowmen and leering Santas watch me as I stand uncertain, playing with the fringe of the wool scarf still wrapped like a serpent around my neck.  Framed landscape paintings done by local artists adorn the walls, for sale at exorbitant prices my shrinking wallet would never be able to afford.
The waitress hates me the moment I walk through the door.  I order a coffee, which tastes like shit, but the muddy brew is hot so I don’t protest.  And I sit and peruse the menu, glancing briefly up at the specials board hung above the kitchen.
I order and listen to the tables around me, the hushed voices, the clinking of silverware, the sweet smell of hot cakes mocking my growling stomach.  The couple at the next table over talks about the blizzard that’s coming, and despite the blue hue of the skies and the bright pallor of the sun, I know better than to doubt them.
She brings me my food, the hash browns soaked in grease, the sausage patties no thicker than a silver dollar.  The eggs look okay, so I ruin them with a salt shaker that comes out in clumps–it hasn’t been changed since the day this place opened.  My body protests every bite; but the cold gnawing at my insides has shifted instead to my stomach, and so I eat with relish.
The old couple next door continue their forecast, mentioning the tarps that need to be tied down, the drafty windows that need refinishing.  There’s a leak in their roof that requires mending, and the hinges on their front gate aren’t working right.  And amidst the slumbering talk of diner folk, I feel myself, now full, growing sleepy.  My head reclines against the back of the tattered, vinyl booth, my lids grow heavy, my body, warm.  And the waitress comes by with the coffee pot and awakens me from my reveries.
Sure, I say.  Best damned coffee I’ve ever had.
And the corner of her lip twitches a bit, and her eyes glimmer with unreleased laughter, and I know she knows the coffee tastes like shit.  But it doesn’t matter, because when it’s this damn cold outside, anything will do.