Basicamente é isto a não ser que por aqui não há um starbucks (e também não faz falta nenhuma)

Starbucks. Queuing in line for a mug of tea, eyes fixed on the female barista.

It’s packed today; people nursing coffees, and teas, and frappucinos, and lattes, bathing in the cool air conditioning, escaping the blistering heat of summer.

She’s wearing a white shirt, the top three buttons undone, exposing just the right amount of cleavage. Knee-length skirt, long, brown hair. Mid-twenties, maybe. Slim, lithe, petite, perfect.

The din of obnoxious children, tap-tap-tapping businessmen, coughing and spluttering OAPS. Deafening and distracting. How can anyone bear to be in this place for any length of time?

Her hands keep going to her shirt, adjusting it, not wanting to give too much away. My unflinching gaze follows, tracing the line of her bra through her shirt. I force my gaze back to eye level, aware of her eyes occasionally darting to mine.

“Hello. What would you like today?”

What I would like is to take this girl back to my place, stumble straight to my bedroom, and spend the rest of the day fucking.

“Tea, please”

Rip her shirt off, hike up her skirt, relieve her of her underwear. Taste her flesh. Penetrate her.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

No thanks. I shuffle to the nearest seat, directly under the air conditioning vent, groin covered with today’s newspaper.

I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and think: Summer. It’s going to be hell.

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