" The waitress does not move. In the glass her face seems to sleep. Her eyes are indeed open but they are only slits. That’s the way she is, she is never in a hurry to wait on customers, she always takes a moment to dream over their orders. She must allow herself the pleasure of imagining: I believe she’s thinking about the bottle she’s going to take from above the counter, the white label and red letters, the thick black syrup she is going to pour out: it’s a little as though she were drinking it herself. "

― Jean-Paul Sartre , Nausea