“I don’t know, Jake,” Willem said into his phone, as he stepped out of the cafe. He found a free table and sat down, placing the carrier bag on his lap and cracking open the can of Pepsi. It was a hot day and he was parched. Downing a can of drink while resting his legs sounded like a good plan. “You say that but there’s something about Cruise, you know?” “Like what? He’s an okay actor, I guess,” returned Jake, the slight Californian lilt of his accent still there, despite twenty years of living in London, “but he picks such crap movies, guy.” “You said you rated Minority Report,” Willem pointed out, lifting the box out of the carrier bag. An old man, on a course for the cafe, stumbled over a loose paving-stone and almost knocked the box out of Willem’s arm. “So sorry,” the old man said, as Willem fought to steady him with his free hand. “It’s okay, man,” Willem returned. The man gathered himself together, and for a moment he remained standing there, looking at Willem through his dark shades.
