He wears a mud brown cap out of habit. It was something he picked up when he lived in Munich in the '70s. It was a way to shield his eyes from the sun and blend into the crowd.
His last partner teased him. "You look like you're wearing it to hide a bald patch."
"I'm actually hiding my hair so the baldies don't get jealous." He misses the laughter that followed.
He always orders the same thing: a glass of dry white and a side of green olives. Today he's reading Baudelaire. Not because he has to, but because it's likely to make more sense once he's halfway through the wine. The couple at the next table are arguing. He shifts his seat to catch the shade cast by the umbrella. He glances at her from behind his sunglasses. She looks like the head of department he had in Munich, back when the Cold War was in full throttle and he spent his days decoding Russian intel.
