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Anyway, he reminded himself that she was the one who had left him.  The waiter brought him his coffee and Nathan scowled.  Turkish coffee.  He hated Turkish coffee, thick and grainy.  He guessed it wasn’t really Turkish coffee.  But then Turkish, Moroccan, it was all the same to him.  It was contained in a tiny porcelain cup, the soupy, bitter substance, guaranteed only to give him a stomach ache. Still Nathan slogged it back, taking it like medicine, a caffeine shot, something he needed to get him going. 

Planck’s Constant