A quiet place, the lights inside are dim but the café is bright with plentiful windows and whitewashed wood walls, giving it a patio atmosphere throughout. The tables and chairs are dark, wood with mahogany-colored stain, and the cup and saucer for my espresso are black. The ashtrays are varied, but the two nearest to me are white, ceramic.

The radio plays softly, French pop songs. A purposefully bald waiter with a purple apron comes and takes my money, counting out the coins and then snatching them up and the receipt as well. I would have liked to have kept the receipt as a souvenir, but I don't say anything. C'est pas grave.

The radio station has shifted slightly somehow, and the music has degenerated into melodic static. I hate when that happens.