J. A. Stapleton

The smashed mirror of water became whole once more when the unshaven face emerged from its depths.

When the café on the corner first opened its doors in the August of 1923, Pierre Goddard and his father thought their clientele would consist mostly of businessmen. Twenty-one years later, his father long gone from polio, with shoulder-length grey hair in a bun, the physical manifestation of a man in a mid-life crisis, and a World War in full swing, it had become frequented by Nazis.