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The Plunger

Which one of them would be first in the door craving my espresso?

The only one whose name I knew was Melita, the tall fake blonde with the big tits. Melita was so ditsy she couldn’t remember how many sugars she wanted in her takeaway latte, or even if she liked sugar.

Number two was the short dark-haired woman. I’d never seen anyone take so long to drink a short black. Her appeal began to diminish the day she became too intense, stared into my eyes and said she wanted a replacement for her old drunken husband.

The hesitant blonde with the bob admired me from a distance, if a little tentatively, from underneath her heavily made-up long-lashed eyes while she took an hour to drink her half-strength soy decaf latte.

Always the last to appear, was the scientist. She doted on me and hung off my words. The cappuccino was her choice. While she stroked my ego well, unfortunately when she laughed, she brayed like a donkey and showed her crooked yellow teeth.

Smitten, she lingered, staring at me day after day, except for the occasional laugh, until, unable to contain herself any longer, at last she found her voice. Could I come to her house to fix her broken coffee plunger?

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