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I put the coffees down and went to the cabinet where the centrepiece of the forthcoming exhibition was housed. I took it out and walked to the Eurasian girl and without asking fitted it around her neck, almost having to stand on tiptoe despite 3” heels. It was a magnificent piece of silver, shaped to lift her chin and mould around the curvature of her cleavage which, despite small breasts, was well defined. I stepped back and admired the look. ‘Well, you have your third model.’ I picked up my bag and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind me. I went home and sat, sobbing quietly with the cat sensitively sitting across my breasts. I hugged him and cursed Angela. I realised I had not locked my front door when I heard its familiar creak and heels tapping on the wooden floor of my hall. I looked up and there was Angela. ‘Fuck off.’ ‘I’ve told you before about being rude.’ She sat facing me and looked at me with a certain tenderness but no remorse that I could detect. ‘That,’ she. Involuntarily, I smiled back at her, a proper wide one, and for a moment we both sat there, grinning like idiots. Perhaps I should take this little moment to tell you about her. She was not short, but not tall - 5'6" at a guess I'd say. Slight, though - with a sort of elongated hourglass figure. She wasn't particularly large in the chest, just, well, in proportion. Her face could probably be described as unexceptional, but looking at her left you with a faint feeling that, if you caught her off balance, in the right light, at the right angle, she could be beautiful enough to make you cry. But that never quite happened with her. Still, she was cheerful, and friendly, and my heart inexplicably warmed to her. So there we were, grinning away like idiots at each other, until we simultaneously looked away bashfully. I defused the moment by discreetly beckoning the barman, who brought over two more glasses. "On my tab, John," I muttered. He nodded, as he always did, and withdrew. We talked.
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