In the window at Danforth Starbucks.

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short brown hair growing out of a close shave, wearing a long, black overcoat, teal scarf and leather gloves. His left ear bares the indentation of an old piercing. A series of scribbles cover the side of his grande paper cup.

Blackfly Season, Giles Blunt (RandomHouse)

Page 238:

One good thing about coming to this abandoned house and its swamp of nostalgia: It kept her thoughts--for a few minutes, anyway--off the more present memories, which ran through her mind like movie trailers.

Churning up the gravel of her driveway, she's safe at home. She hopes her lover is still asleep. (27 years and he's still her lover.) She likes to wake him, taking roll call of all his fingers and toes, brushing the soft curl of hair from his forehead, waiting for his sleepy eyes to open and focus. Leaping towards the cottage, she stops short in the screen door, looking through a break in the trees to see her young neighbour--all golden curls, missing teeth and sky blue eyes--appearing to run endless laps around the tire planter of her front yard. Round and round, with no sign of stopping, and happy as any child from that house could be. They aren't permitted to speak to the neighbours and they've become accustomed to playing games in silence, their peels of laughter muted into crinkly expressions of silent joy. She feels such fondness for this girl that her stomache aches. Once more around and the little girl looks up and smiles before being ushered inside with a firm clasp on her shoulders.

The woman continues inside, removing her sandals, thankful for the smooth shag of mismatched carpets under her toes, this hideaway pieced by pieces of old furniture and discarded end tables. They haven’t even put in a kitchen sink; it’s been this way for two decades and they see no reason to change it now that it’s theirs. Friends laugh that a dartboard has been their most urgent addition. Insulation bulges through the rafters and mould has started to collect on the dry wall beside the tub. Bats nest in the attic, and moths live in the shingles, but nothing beats a sleep in the woods to convince you that tomorrow "nothing" will be the order of the day. She bursts into the bedroom, onto the bed. Wispy bits at the hairline? Check. Gentle cluck bundled in the back of his throat? Check. Hands tucked under a cherubic cheek? Check. 17,836,242 freckles on his shoulders? Check. All here.

All good.