The bright blue café stood out in the square. An older man was sat on one of their rattan, bistro chairs with his back against the chipped paint of the outdoor wall.
The café glistened in the sunlight. As he held his small paper cup of espresso increasingly closer to his cracked lips, which were half hidden by a cascading, brittle moustache, he let out circles of smoke from a cigarette. The circles grew larger and larger under the influence of the spring breeze until they, finally, disappeared.
His thin, red scarf brought out the crimson paint stains on his denim jeans. With a black beret precariously perched on his dirty hair, his shallow and defeated eyes met mine.
An insignificant smile possessed his thin lips as he turned his clipboard around to face me. The sketch of a young woman challenged my gaze. Her even eyebrows and glossy hair stared through my body, absently. I did not feel a thing. So, I told myself to look away and moved along to the next cocktail bar of Montmartre.