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Compadre, I am back to the daily commute and the elevator ride to the seventh floor. My secretary was glad to see me. She’s a slim, elegant, hard working, thirty something mother of two. I was at my desk five minutes when she tapped gently on the door and came in with her note-book poised; not to take notes, but to tell me who wanted to see me and how soon.


There’s no sign of the handsome barista. Hopefully is absence is because he has graduated with a first and has been head hunted by one of the better law firms. His replacement is a dark-haired, wide shouldered, twenty something, with wide apart eyes, solid jaw line and a protruding Adam’s apple. His clothes stripping leer is more explicit and degrading than his more refined predecessor.


…following on from Ingrid 2….

Ingrid was propping up the bar when I arrived; perhaps decorating the bar should be a more apt description. I stood at the door for a handful of seconds watching the way the staff eyed her as they went back and forth.
The two male bartenders were looking at her with a mixture of lust and awe, their attitudes almost worshipful, as if they were looking at a partly clothed young, nubile mother superior in church on her knees.
The two females behind the bar in neat, tidy uniforms, seemed to regard her with a mixture of envy and dangerous envy. They would have liked to be her, and at the same time they wanted her driven out-of-town on a rail, because they knew they’d never be able to compete.

Inga sipped her drink, seeming oblivious to everything, her long, platinum blonde hair slightly forward over her face, long slender body encased in immaculate white trousers, and a pale blue gossamer silk blouse over a skin-tight white body tube. Even in her flat slippers she was as tall as me.

Her smile was genuine, but there was a small amount of trepidation in her mouth. “I’m glad you could come,” she said, kissing the air on either side of my face.

Oh, fuck…is nowhere sacred. What’s she doing here?