The cafe had a heavy tense atmosphere. It was restless, loud, and smelled of rotten expired food and cigarettes. It wasn't very polished or new, the chairs were old and the tables made of dilapidated wood. There was vague traces of brown hues on the wallpaper, but it had aged and faded a dusty yellow with time's passing. The men around her were drinking abundantly, and the air reeked of cheap alcohol and excessive perfume. It wasn't a typical French cafetiere, it didn't even serve coffee or patisseries. The cafe was in a dirty corner of Paris that only sleazy commercial men came to so they could avoid their sorrows and wives.
She thought of how truly pathetic they all were. A bunch of unappreciative disgusting men who act like ostriches by hiding their heads and necks in a prostitutes breasts rather than to confront any real problem in life. They thought a whiskey with their friends solved their problems, their lives; they were real men with an appetite of all of what masculinity stood for.
''Can I get you anything? Whiskey?''
She turned around and stared. Brendan finally arrived. Brendan was your typical Frenchman: glassy blue eyes, brown hair, a neat tailored suit, excessive cologne and fake courtesy and manners.
''You're late.'' She replied.
''I'm aware. Heavy traffic.'' He said, as a type of excuse.
''Save the whiskey for later. Did you get the intel?''
She hated the fake politeness. The French were a living representation of Greek dramas, always bordering on acting either tragically or comically. It was unnecessarily excessive.
''You Americans are very impatient. You should learn from us Europeans: a little courtesy goes a long way.''
''Tell that to Germany.''
He bowed his head in concession of her point. There's nothing about Europe that she liked, including this man.
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