The coffee joint, Pandora’s Java Hut, usually has a flood of patrons on a Sunday morning in May. Today, perhaps because it seeps raging bolts of sunshine and heat, Pittsburghers have decided to stay inside, leaving the place empty. Even the sidewalk boils.

The establishment has gone through various owners and names in last fifteen years. Wolf recalls such names as Coffee Cups, Beantown Coffee, Drips, and others. He cannot recall former owners, though. He’s been told that the place is currently owned and operated by the widower James Dialander; a once-happy-go-lucky gent who lost his Japanese-American husband to the recent widespread COVID-19 pandemic. The thin, pale, and bony blonde is rarely seen in the hut because of his grief, but Wolf has been told through the grapevine of coffee shop customers that the man is getting the necessary counseling he needs to survive the loss of his mate.

A half dozen round, three-person maple tables line the left and right walls of Pandora’s Java Hut. The floor looks to be a faux mahogany inlay. Yellow-green lights form ovals on the floor as if one steps into an ultra-techno museum. Dave Hole sings from overhead speakers. Near the rear of the main floor is a long bar with two registers, bottles of fruit juice in a cooler, a glass display filled with local, homemade baked goods, and two coffee baristas.

He knows one barista. Casey Lane: tall, slim, orange-haired, arms covered in tattoos, too many ear and nose rings. She sports a denim jumpsuit and Marilyn Monroe heels. Her orange hair is pulled up with a white scrunchy.

“Wolfie,” she says over the counter. “Here every Sunday. I can count on it. You never let me down.”

“Back again.”

“What are you reading today?”

Wolf holds up the thin trade paperback for no reason. “Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.”

“Never heard of him, or the book.”

Wolf is not surprised. Casey runs with a bunch of cultural misfits who enjoy Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, and Kurt Vonnegut, which he respects. Gay, black love-interest stories are surely not in her wheelhouse. Case closed.

“Hey,” Casey says, pointing at a young man to her left who has mussed brown hair and deep brown eyes. “This is the new guy. Or, I should say new owner. His name is Tin. Tin Tinkle. I have to go in the back and check on some muffins. He’s going to help you, Wolfie.”

“Thanks. No problem,” Wolf replies. And off Casey floats, into the back kitchen and prep area where she does whatnots with whatnots, being a superior barista during the previous owner’s time of grief.

Before Wolf realizes what is happening, the new guy speaks. “Nice to meet you, Wolfie.”

“Wolf,” he corrects the young man. “I honestly don’t know why Casey calls me Wolfie. Because no one does. But I allow her.”

“Wolf,” Tin corrects himself. “And my last name isn’t Tinkle. It’s Kimple.”

“You’re the new owner?” Wolf asks with raised eyebrows. “I thought it was James Dialander, the recent widower?”

“Who?” Tin inquires.

“Never mind,” Wolf shares. “It’s a misunderstanding on my part.”

The two men shake hands. The handshake with Tin is smooth, soft, tender, and gentle. The two men lock eyes: creamy brown meets Wolf’s blazing blue. The coffee shop owner smiles: straight teeth, bright-white, obviously not a smoker. Wolf takes in the young barista’s frame: five-nine, maybe a hundred and ten pounds wet. Tiny, pointed nipples pop out of his white T-shirt. Over Tin’s right nipple, in the shape of a domed hovel, it reads in red block letters that are trimmed in black: Pandora’s Java Hut.

“When did you buy the place?” Wolf asks.

“Monday. A week ago. It’s been in the works since the end of March.”

“Your first coffee shop?”

“No. Numerous ones,” Tin does a thumbs-up sign, grins. The young man leans forward, over the counter, and has the audacity to check Wolf out from toes to head.

Tin gives Wolf a blatant once-over. Wolf notices, sort of blushes. Tin takes in Wolf’s blondish-gray hair and blue-blue eyes; broad shoulders and six-one frame; muscular chest and arms; runner’s thighs and the tubular package between his legs; flat stomach and dented navel.

“You like men?” Wolf asks. It’s quite clear that Tin does, but Wolf asks anyway. Why not? What does he have to lose?

Tin recedes behind the counter again. “Only older men ... the older, the better.”

“You have a daddy complex?”

Tin shakes his head, grins. “Not really. I just like mature men. Older. Wiser. I think you’re sexy ... I mean, I think they’re sexy.”