Pierre stood in the doorway of the quaint little Parisian café. His jet black hair fluttered in the warm breeze as the sun shone down upon the small side street just off the main boulevarde. The warm sun shone down onto the cold metal seats that were placed outside on the pavement and on the road; no cars ever came down this street. The café was quieter than usual. It was mid March and the streets were now begining to return to the reletive quiet after the winter tourist season. Pierre stood there in the doorway, staring down the street. He was 21 now, a philosophy student, nothing special in the "city of artists". He had been working in the Café Parisien for a few months now. He reveled in the smokey atmosphere.