I have longed for cork floors since I dated a boy whose parents’ house had a cork floor billiard room bar with a dumbwaiter. The floor was warm if one was barefooted, smelled nice, and looked like wooden tile. Plush. His daddy was a neurosurgeon who was chief of surgery at one of the preeminent hospitals in the city. His daddy also drove a Rolls Royce. I can’t imagine what a cork floor cost back then, but I’ll bet it was a packet.