War could start in weeks, maybe days.
I'm sitting in the French cafe wondering what I'm supposed to do with my life. Greta wants me to stay and have a long drink with her. She wants me to listen to Edith Piaf singing "La Petite Boutique", again and again. She wants me to eat the almond croissant she doesn't feel like finishing. She doesn't want me to go.
And neither do I. But equally I don't feel like drinking this coffee which is too black and too cold anyway. I don't feel like listening to any more of those French songs. I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like killing Germans.
Greta and I, we both know about the future. Earlier today this little girl waitress approached us and introduced herself. In the touching blue apron and with short hair dyed sand, she told us that the war would start later tonight. She was new to the French cafe, this girl, and it was her first day at work.
There was no way of proving or disproving what she said, but Greta covered her face in her hands and began to weep as we heard the voice of Edith Piaf singing "La Petite Boutique", again and again. It was only now that we realised the song had been playing for hours, and the invisible little waitress kept pushing the needle back, and the war may have already started.