Alastair Macleod 
Comfort Zone 

’The polished mahogany counter gleamed, light bounced from the glass mirror through the bottles on the wall behind the bar. Yvette, a flaming red head, tarty in black top and short green skirt was polishing glasses. As she turned he noticed her purple fingernails, the dark eye shadow, the deep red Goth girl lipstick. A snake tattoo slid tantalisingly out of sight down her cleavage.
She got his espresso with slow deliberate movements, from cup rack to coffee machine. She knew he was watching, knew his eyes followed her body as she stretched down for the cup then up to the lever.
It was a show, she was the performer. There was no eye contact until she turned and pushed the coffee towards him touching his hand with hers. It was hot and moist.
Then she looked straight at him, her face framed in vibrant red hair, her lips parting to say the price.’