It would be like old times.
I thought if I came back, kept coming back, I thought that maybe, I was just dreaming I know, but I thought maybe you would come back too, some time, and it would be like old times. Hey, I was just dreaming. That I would be back here with you, like real love.
Vivien stares at the laptop in her corner office on the 29th floor. A Qantas jet sails across the glass wall behind her. (It seems to just hang there forever.) Her phone chimes.
She clatters down a long glass corridor of scattered light to reception, a stark minimalist space facing the lifts furnished with a Pantone-coloured designer-dysfunctional desk and chairs, and a potplant palm.
The receptionist mutters something unintelligible into a headset mouthpiece, pushes across a courier box. Vivien nods to the receptionist, tears open the box, and pulls out a bottle of wine.
A man in a stiff black business suit squirms in his seat and looks at his Rolex.
Ding! The lift doors open …