(Perspective of the ilya working within her cafe till she looks out the window)
Monday, 24rd October 1949
17:10
"What defines evil?"
He walked through the narrow streets, streetlamps peppered at its sides, refracting out their dim shine. His eyes were affixed upon a small café. Below that, there shone a small glint—a fire within his baby-blue eyes, cerulean to the touch, like the ocean on a hot summer's day. His hands were held behind him, his fingers interlaced within the crevasses of themselves, his thumbs transposed once and once again. He held not an air of power but of importance. A well-decided, well-rounded man he appeared. His clothes of lavender and cotton, lavishly tough yet soft. His shoes polished and black, looking like industrial oil. His hair wavy and blonde—long, but not too long—aristocracy laced within his smile. Yet he had a black hat upon his head. He stood with his back straight, not an imperfection within his stance. He was uncannily perfect—not an insult to be made of his appearance apart from how professional he looked. His face was of equal proportionality, his voice calm and soothing. Lean and delicate, yet equally unassuming. A man made to blend in so well you would not see him in an open plain of grass.
"Who is he?"
He would waltz into the small café, his head held steadily. And then he would turn in a single motion, with no impediment in his movement—it was like a mannequin on strings, he didn't walk, he hovered.
"Excu—Excuse me, sir. What would you like?" I asked. There was an emptiness within his eyes.
He tipped his head politely, then his hat. "Coffee, please. No sugar.Ilya."
I walked over to the kitchen, nodding my head in return, preparing the coffee with haste—though the day was not busy. The café is somewhat famous, though I work alone.
Then it struck me. "My name. How does he know my name?"
I rushed out of the kitchen, peeking my head out. Then I strut forward, no longer peeking, and began scrutinizing the shop. Amongst the people sitting in the cafe; I turned to a middle-aged man sitting, drinking a cup of coffee in another chair.
"Excuse me, sir, did you see a blonde-haired man—quite young—leave the shop?" I beckoned, raising my hand to point at his seat.
He tilted his head in confusion and then shook it.
"Eh?"
Ding ding. The small bell above the door of the café rang, and a small black cat strode in with a furry mouse in her mouth.
"Mr. Meows, what did I tell you about trying to bring me random presents?" I said, walking over, rubbing her neck as she purred in delight.
"You know that's a girl, right?" the man chuckled.
"Really? I thought she was a he."
"That makes him Miss Meows now." He would sip his coffee
He would continue "It's weird I'd say, the way a person likes their coffee tells you a lot about them." He wore a broad smile crossing from ear to ear
I smiled back.