Tight-Lipped

Franck sat down, uninvited. He brought his espresso with him. It had been delivered to his table – about three metres away, right next to the window with a clear view of the entrance to number 23 and the rest of rue Taine – a few minutes before. He had been too distracted watching what was going on at the café’s tabac counter to drink it. But he was not about to let it go to waste. It was only his third. He had been there since about twenty to seven, one of the few sedentary figures in the café’s to-and-fro of early morning clients.