I am, I realize, developing a small crush on one of the bartenders at the Café. He is very young, very French, and by any measure, adorable. I don’t know his name, but he has the loveliest smile.
Watching him tonight, I found myself admiring the cat in him. There is something leonine about the way he moves—lazily, languorously, with excessive grace. He moves as though he is slowly coming awake in the midday sun.
He’s a bastard, I’m sure, but it hardly matters.