Me by Laurent

What's a girl to do when Atmospher is shut?   

I found myself on the side of the Place where the sun shines, on the terrasse of Numéro Vin which I tend to avoid because I prefer dark corners. 

Rousseaux called me over and offered me a seat and a glass of wine.  Nono was opposite, talking about doing a theatre project with Mitou's autistic nephew Léo who makes his living magnetising people at the market on Mondays.  Patrick-from-the-cinema was at the table next to ours with a man I didn't know who looked like a native American.  He got on to Springsteen, voting Tunnel of Love his best album, followed close on the heels by Nebraska.  There was talk of the Chinese balloon, rhum, kleftas, how to give up smoking, the best altitude for growing weed, the chances of France winning the six nations, the growing anger about Macron's retirement reforms, the shit show that is L'Education Nationale, when the hunting season will officially end (no one ever knows that one), why Père David's wearing white instead of black?  must be a baptism, for once....  

Meanwhile a couple of tables away, Laurent is drawing.  His eyes up and down, his big shopping bags of paint and pencils and brushes at his feet.  He never talks, he watches and takes note.