He had that look of stoic anger, his lips drawn together tightly and his face contorted and focused. He never spoke, never even looked at you, apart from a cursory glance and nod as he took your order. You could tell he was angry by the way he banged everything loudly. The cups, the spoons, the plates, all thumped down to remind you that he existed and what you saw wasn’t really him. He shouldn’t have been a café owner, serving breakfasts to the itinerant workers and passing office staff. Inside he was an artist, a painter, a writer, perhaps an opera singer. This was all an illusion and he wanted you to know it. He was about fifty with grey, receding hair. He…