Le Gourmand, relaxing with a coffee

Caucasian male, early to late 30s, it's hard to tell; his hair is streaked with grey. His hair is, in fact, old school, Kenickie "greaser", thick with product, perpetually wet, everlasting. He wears a hard leather jacket over a patterned collared shirt, and low-slung skinny jeans, black. He's never without his girlfriend who looks up past his bony frame to a set of steely blue eyes, softened only when she leans into him, playfully, knowingly. Today, he's alone. And I can't help but wonder.

Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain (Bloomsbury)

Page 107:

It was, as I've said, hot. Ten minutes into the shift, the cheap polyester whites we all wore would be soaked through with sweat, clinging to chest and back.

She knows she should get up. She looks out the window and wonders when it will get lighter sooner. She shifts her weight and the cat stretches lazily, his back leg shaking out the night's sleep. He steadies himself on the edge of the bed, ready to face the floor, and she holds his chest, tighter than she knows she should, but enough to remind him who's boss. She just isn't ready to be left empty in these sheets. Her gaze falls fuzzy on the farthest corner of the room, the chair where his shirt still lies rumpled, his boots folding over soft in a heap. He'd dressed with his back turned to her, knowing full well she could see everything in the mirrored closets. It was the point of it all. She didn't know what was worse, the fact that she wouldn't look away, or that by looking she was seeing that length of muscle in his back, the tattoo on his shoulder blade, the soft patch of fur above his belt buckle, for that last time. In the night, she'd stirred to find him kissing her stomache. She'd reached down to touch his face, stained with tears.