Nicholas - never Nick, because who needs a nickname for an alias, anyway? - had found the cafe a couple of days ago. It was infinitely helpful that he lived close by, and the cafe was preferable to his own cramped flat. Anyway, a book and a cup of tea out of the way of kitten's claws and the feeling that he was being crushed by sheer gravity and lack of space was always a welcome respite.
He'd only been in Paris for a few days, and already it reminded him strongly of a washed-out black and white photograph. The colours were muted and the shadows deep, and the occupation utter. A painting that someone had done up while very depressed, obviously.
Also, the tea was not nearly as good here as it was back home. He thought he would have to wait until he was back in London - if he made it, if London made it - to get a decent cuppa. Irritating, but not fatal.
He had a book with him, and had settled into a table by the window with his book - a copy of some poems he'd been fond of, brought with to stave off long nights and grim work. In English, of course, because if he had to read anymore French than the papers and street signs he thought he'd go mad - nothing against the French, of course, but he did rather miss home.
The book was open to a familiar poem, written in his own hand, as all of them were. "They that had fought so well / Came through the jaws of Death / Back from the mouth of Hell." Tennyson, he reflected.