Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud

Late on a Thursday evening, a man named Paul Verlaine was working at a restaurant in central France. On weekdays, the restaurant was almost deserted, but on weekends, it was packed. The new owner, who had taken over, had installed a bar inside to attract "more customers"... which, frankly, irritated Verlaine, as the owner now had two grievances against him: waiting and bartending.

This Thursday was unlike any other. Several tables were fully booked—groups of friends, families, and drunken men laughing their heads off… but one table stood out: a lone man sat there, wearing fluffy white headphones and long, flowing black hair… Verlaine had to admit… he looked rather nice.

Verlaine quietly hummed to himself as he wiped his glass behind the bar… it seemed his order hadn't been served yet—maybe it was worth the risk. He returned the glass, pulled out a notepad and pen, and then walked out from behind the bar and headed straight for the man's table.

Verlaine approached, smiled, leaned over, and spoke in a quiet, French tone.