A Bitter Clue

I moved across the polished expanse of the low table, trailing the scent of roasted beans. A ceramic mug stood tall against the morning light like a brooding water tower, half-filled with cold, black coffee. Resting against its curved handle was a discarded wooden stirrer, worn and dark at the tip. I picked it up, feeling the light splinter in my knit palm, and tucked it into the corner of my mouth like an unlit cigar. Looking down into the dark, reflective surface of the brew, I saw my own yarn eyes staring back. A detective needs to keep his senses sharp, even when the parlor stays quiet.