Make yourself at home

It's five in the morning, when only a few stepped out of the buses and subway exits. The sky is still gloomy. Passerby's walking monotonously in their suits, each carrying a black briefcase as it's a part of them... Surrounded by the expressionless skyscrapers and empty roads, I looked for it. It's not far from any of you, it's actually just right down the street; yet too pathetic to be noticed. A cab ran past me, but I stopped. A bell dingled that signaled my entrance to a misty cafe. Smells like espresso and Marlboro. Two or three people leaned against the bar, their heads down, their glasses empty. One had a notebook full of scribbles and sketches, the other one had an opened violin case placed on the bar,.. but it's empty. It's too dark to fully make out their figure, the orange lights are too dim. The record is broken, the blue coming out from it is suffocating. The owner does not greet me, but wipes his glasses and cups mechanically; a cigarette loosely inserted between his lips. I took a seat at a table, "black coffee for me please". They all laughed coldly. "Lady," one of them said, "This place hasn't got that since 1940." The rest of them joined in at the same time, "But in anyway, make yourself at home."