I See London, I See France, I See Someone's Underpa...

Smiling curtly, the waiter squelches an impulse to haul off and knock the brassy American off his chair. The smart slap to his backside could have sent him over an edge, however he continues walking into the interior of the restaurant, head held high. That blonde looks famously familiar, if he could just recall where he'd seen her face before. Hard to tell with the dark glasses, swirl of smoke, and beret shadowing her features.

Inside he passes the high stools that surround the counter. Behind it, he places 2 cups on a tray and turns to the coffee machine. Fills up one. Fills up a second one. And then while no one is looking, he promptly spits into the second cup. With a satisfied smirk he turns and places the proper utensils along with a sugar and creamer on the tray. In no big hurry now, he retraces his steps back around the counter and out onto the covered cafe patio. A light rain continues to pelt the canvas above his head.

Returning to their corner table, the waiter places cup number one in front of the bereted woman, and cup number two on the table before the spiky-haired American. The woman glances up as she crushes her cigarette into a green glass ashtray and smiles. With a wan half-smile in return, the waiter bows slightly and spins on a heel leaving them to their conversation. Just before he disappears into the cafe doorway, an attractive young blonde pulls away from the curb in a grey Volvo. Little does he know, she'd been watching him through the large cafe windowfront the whole time.