The spider, having just spun the silvery thread of its web, looks out from the shelf through the magnifying lens of the glasses. Its eyes meet the waitress’ gaze, then shift to a fly buzzing around two customers – hopefully it can be lured over this way. One of the men raises his hand and a clap is heard as if from an old-fashioned dance, this is exactly what pops into the head of the cleaning lady who is smoking in front of the café and who watched a film about old-fashioned lovers on television last night. The waitress, standing near the bar, lifts her eyes – her gaze is like coffee – the fly falls to the black-and-white floor and the spider sees its golden soul flying away. “That coffee-colored gaze suits her, it’s like she’s importing the exoticism of Ethiopia duty-free,” the customer thinks to himself, “but she doesn’t know it and is always getting angry at the men who, enthralled by it, just keep babbling on and on… but since she categorically continues to refuse their bouquets, like the doorman says, they clearly haven’t said the right thing…” He is already thinking up a story in which the waitress wakes up and goes to the café, he’s imagining the run in her stocking, thin and transparent like a spider’s web, and even what she’s thinking in moments like this, when two early-risers sit down here in the morning and hardly seem like big tippers, they’ll most likely forget to leave anything at all. “But what exactly is she thinking?” he wonders and gets up from the table with a “just a second” to his friend and goes over to the bar.