I swung the door open, the hinges creakier than the rocking chair my grandfather used to rest in. My secretary was already here, as expected. She told me I had a client waiting. A client? I thought to myself, at 8:30 in the morning? Must be some drunk stumbling in after a long night, hoping I could help him find his keys.
I sat down in my office, placing my brown briefcase on my desk. The briefcase was a prop, I never needed it. I carried it for looks only, to look professional. I pressed the button on the intercom, “Let him in,” I sighed into the little box that popped up from my desktop.
The door opened more slyly than the foxiest of all foxes. “Mr. Dawson?” the voice squeaked. One thing was for sure, this was no male. I cleared my throat and told the mystery woman to come in. She walked in slowly, her great, towering legs gliding in like hovercrafts. It was immediately apparent to me that I should treat this client with special care. I was 42 years old; lonely.