Jake and Ken ordered tiramisu each night from the all-night eatery down the block. The caffeine kept them awake in the wee hours while they watched a small monitor screen, took turns walking a square-shaped beat around the building, listened to violin concertos on the radio. One night Jake told Ken about the disputed origins of tiramisu, how Italian wives made it for their husbands going off to World War I, or how Renaissance women made it for their men to give them late night energy, or that it was invented by chance to do something with leftover coffee and cake. Ken knew Jake was young, full of stories and information, savings unblemished by bad fortune, a heart yet unbroken. Jake thought the violins were artistic not sad. But it would come. Eventually the eatery changed ownership. They sold tiramisu still but made it with strawberries, occasionally lemon. Still tasty but the coffee flavor diminished. Jake walked in one evening, smiling, buoyed by a certain bounce. Love. Soon, Ken thought, he would learn the truth. That tiramisu was a cake, plain and simple like many others, a delicious gift delivered to a sad, aching world. Those violins you hear—that's the world's crying its tears. Someday, you'll eat the cake and know.