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He took a chair on the other side of the coffee table. I saw him looking at my legs, my breasts, my legs, and back to my breasts before settling on my face. I smiled at him. In a normal office, such action could be offensive. It was almost expected here. I was wearing nude stocking with lace tops with dark 4” heels to match the skirt hanging outside. I uncrossed my legs and too slowly parted them before recrossing. He realized what had happened was on purpose and he chuckled.“You tease me.” I smiled. It was obvious we like each other. It was equally obvious we could relax and be ourselves when we were alone. It wasn’t why I worked late but I had suspected it was a part of why he sometimes stayed late.We talked. He asked about the projects I was working on, especially interested in the strategy currently being tried. I asked about his travel.“Don’t worry, Abby. I said I would pull back and I am. I’m still traveling but this trip starts with an operational issue in New Jersey, then. Maarten came to my table with a cup of coffee. There was a small biscuit on the edge of the saucer, and a tiny metal canister with cream.“Thank you. Is there any cake?”He looked me over and first I thought he was going to say something like: ‘Should you be eating cake, tubby?’, but it turned out to be a look of concern for my mental, rather than my cardiovascular health.“Listen ... Are you okay? I mean, you’re welcome to come here, of course. But it feels as if you’re ... hiding from something.”“I am the same fucked up mess I have always been, and I’ve been hiding from life since 1975. Today is no different from any other day, I assure you.”“Okay. Just ... I was just asking. I thought maybe you were homesick, or something.”“Homesick? Then why would I come to a Belgian coffee bar? I’m British. I’d eat beans on toast and find a traffic jam so I could sit in my car and mutter under my breath,” I said, trying to keep it light and get him to leave. But he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even.
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