A hat atop much long hair comes in. A dashing hat; it goes around to one end of the bar and asks for a decaf Irish coffee - no Bailey's, no mint, just in case that's how it's made here. Some may notice that no music escapes the lips under that hat tonight, unless the song has nothing, nothing, of religion, or patriotism, or other ideals divisive of humanity. Others may notice little holes being drilled in the whipped cream by tears falling from from the eye less hidden by the hat's jaunty angle, in the moments before the coffee becomes part of history, like the past week, like the past 2 decades and more. After all, you can't let Irish Coffee get cold, or you miss the whole point.