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Scrubber

Come for the coffee, stay for the view
The lunchtime rush has long since subsided, I have plenty of tables to choose from.

Alone at a low table for two in my favourite coffee house, a welcome respite from the daily grind, I relax into my upholstered chair with a copy of the evening paper. My eyes flick between stories of international tragedy, financial uncertainty and society parties. This place is so familiar to me; I can easily tune out the irregular sounds of the customers and the hollow growl of the coffee machine. However, my moment of calmness is broken by the flat-pitched clang of a galvanised steel bucket being set down heavily on one of the white marble tiles that stretch the length of the cafe.

I look up and see one of the waitresses no more than a dozen feet away. Petite with a naturally waspish shape, she wears a pink gingham shirt, one size too small, collar turned up with the top three buttons merely there for decoration. Her thick mop of black hair mostly held up, in some kind of fashion.

She passes a brief comment to the other waitress on the other side of the counter in whatever language they speak, in whatever Balkan country they come from. She lowers herself on to her knees in the area where the lunchtime crowd would have earlier waited for their orders. Through the rising steam, she reaches her hand into the bucket, pulls out the scrubbing brush and slaps it to the floor.

Leaning forward, she overlaps her hands and strokes the brush across the floor to a steady rhythm. The stiff bristles scouring at the dried-on street grime and spilled orders. The soap foams up between her delicate fingers.

Her obviously supple back arches to maximise the length of her strokes. My eyes naturally coming to rest on her full round breasts as they press together each time she reaches out across the grubby tiles. A gold pendant catching the light as it spins, bouncing in and out of her squeezing cleavage.

Forming tiny droplets of perspiration give a shimmer to the exposed curve of her breasts; it makes me all too aware of the itchiness of my shirt's collar.

I'm staring, I'm not the only one. There are other furtive glancers dotted amongst the tables. Office escapees just like me, just as mesmerised. Then she looks up.

Her eyes, like sparkling blue topaz, locked on to mine. An unruly lock of her hair waving around between her eyes is my only protection from the iciness of her returning stare. Her scarlet lips pressed into what Shelley must have meant by a "sneer of cold command", telling me that my attention is neither required nor welcome.

Out of some sense of politeness (I imagine), I break away, flicking my eyes upwards but it doesn't help. In the angled mirror on the wall above her, I see her backside perfectly sheathed in her tight black leggings. Moving back and forth as she scrubs. Presented to me like an animalistic invitation, my reaction is just as basic: a fiery mix of feral desire and passion somehow held in check by social niceties.

All too soon, her work is done.

My order is cold.

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