A guy, dressed in all black – pants, leather jacket, bald head, cammo boots – is sitting in my usual spot. Think less Danny Devito and more Vladimir Putin. He has that terrifying look of someone playing a hit man in a thriller.

Vlad has ordered nothing from the counter, keeps looking at his watch, and is wildly jiggling his leg. He is clearly waiting for someone. I am certain of my impending death in some international espionage situation and spend not a short amount of time contemplating whether I should heed my mother’s advice, trust my gut, make like a bunny, and scamper to the nearest exit.

I reason with myself – my latte is hot and I am finally warm. And, I got a seat by the fire for a change. Also, I want to see the latecomer. My curiosity, for not the umpteenth time in my life, wins out.

Vlad appears to be agitated and I pity the person he is waiting for, who is clearly late. I curse that person who is making my hit man angry(ier). I try to make eye contact with the Russian president – maybe if he sees my kind, social-workery eyes, he’ll spare me when his friend/victim arrives.

He gets up and makes his way to the counter where he orders a flipping espresso. THAT seals the deal. Nobody gets a two-sip coffee this early in the morning. He must need to jack himself up for whatever is about to go down. (I, too, watched The Americans. I know how these things work.)

He drinks his baby drink in one gulp WHILE STANDING. Who does that?? He starts to head in my direction and I meekly smile at him. He does not smile back and I am a little offended. He goes back to his table where he continues his watch-checking and leg-jiggling.

Seriously, dude. Just CALL your friend/victim and find out if the Red Line is late again. (I want to say.) A few more minutes pass and he stomps back up to the counter.

He demands something from the cashier, which I can’t quite make out. Could be all the money in their register. Could be a demand for croissants. Who knows at this point.

And, there it is. He orders up a box of heart-shaped Linzer cookies.

Wait, what was that now? C’mon man. You are giving international assassins a bad name.

Just as Vlad turns around, pink frilly gift box in hand, a blonde woman, maybe in her 50’s, walks in the door. He gallantly presents her with his gift of heart cookies, throws an arm around her, and off they go.

Maybe it’s Trump. Maybe it’s that freaking scary Roger Stone, but the world has become a hilarious and terrifying place.

My night shift nurses just walked in and ordered their usual orange juice and wee bottles of champagne for their morning mimosas. I’m glad the place has returned to normal. After my near escape, I may need to join them.