BAD DREAM
Temping again. Christmas cover for some lucky sod spending three weeks in Jamaica. Lucy was eighteen and going nowhere for Christmas. Going nowhere, full stop, it seemed. But at that time of year, anonymous offices had their own unique thrill. Left alone while bosses went to boozy lunches, came back chubby-cheeked from cheeseboards. Mince pies everywhere, crumpled Quality Street wrappers rainbowing over desks. And Daz from sales loitering at reception every day, flirting for a week before they kissed in the kitchen with the windows snowflaked and steamy. Big hands around her waist when she wouldn’t tell him his Secret Santa, pressing her against the counter with its tins of coffee and tea.
And then the first of the
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