"Yes," says Combeferre, breathing heavily. "Yes, we do."
He turns to the pillows. "Stay here," he says firmly. "Wait for us."
The pillows fly towards each other, into a small indignant constellation. They float upwards together and then settle down onto the ground, fluffing out like huffy cats.
It is dark and gleaming inside, with all kinds of food on a kind of counter, under glass containers. Fresh, uncooked food, too--it looks like spinach and lettuce and tomatoes and some things Combeferre can't identify. Salads. Combeferre has read of them, and seen them on occasion in Milliways, but it's a different thing to see them in Paris.
Above the counter is a sign with a list of coffee-based beverages, none of which seem to actually be coffee itself.
He turns to Joly. "...do you have any francs on you?"
no subject
He turns to the pillows. "Stay here," he says firmly. "Wait for us."
The pillows fly towards each other, into a small indignant constellation. They float upwards together and then settle down onto the ground, fluffing out like huffy cats.
Combeferre takes that as agreement.
They enter the café.
It is dark and gleaming inside, with all kinds of food on a kind of counter, under glass containers. Fresh, uncooked food, too--it looks like spinach and lettuce and tomatoes and some things Combeferre can't identify. Salads. Combeferre has read of them, and seen them on occasion in Milliways, but it's a different thing to see them in Paris.
Above the counter is a sign with a list of coffee-based beverages, none of which seem to actually be coffee itself.
He turns to Joly. "...do you have any francs on you?"