Carol fiddled with her fork absent mindedly; the computer screen sitting in front of her glowed as if trying to regain her attention. Odds and ends of wires and small chunks of gleaming metal also vied for recognition without result. Rejected, they sat abandoned on a corner of her desk. The half-eaten English muffin spread with creamy tuna grew cold as the minutes passed with every tick of the clock. She breathed in as images of glossy, shadowy hair and a cynical smile overtook her thoughts, flashing up in the forefront of her mind like the glowing signs of posh shops in the evenings.

It was nearly 9:00 at night, and still she lingered over the man she had met that morning. She released a shaky breath and shook her head trying to clear the imaginings and return to her work. He was mocking and rude, and obviously not the sort she should associate with.

What type of individual resides in a bar at 7:00 in the morning? she thought, trying to convince herself to forget him. It certainly didn't work. When she finally did scoop a bit of tuna onto her fork and attempted to place it in her mouth, she missed entirely, hitting herself in the cheek.

Unbelievable, she admonished herself. With a frustrated huff she rose from her desk, and dashed to the ladies room to repute her dirtied face. She shoved open the door; marching over to the paper towel dispenser she snatched a few out of it, dampening the edges slightly, proceeding to scrub the tuna off her skin until it shined. Her hand flew to her purse. Her delicate fingers dug out a plastic makeup case and popped the stubborn zipper handle up with a fingernail. She opened the bag, digging out the mineral powder.

When her skin was once again coated in the smooth white dust, and her mascara touched up to perfection, she returned to her desk. Deciding to call it a day, she packed up the tuna dinner and placed it in the mini fridge beneath the desk counter. She rose from her seat, heels tapping softly over the carpeted floor. A tiny beam of light shone ominously from the doorway at the end of the room. She was the last one there; Carol had a tendency to work late. Why rush? she thought, I don't have anyone to go home to.

As she entered the elevator, again her thoughts rushed back to the man; hissing in irritation she shut them down. Couldn't she move on? It was an impossible notion, meeting him again. She would probably never even see him, London was a huge city. She didn't know where he worked, or if he was married. . . .

She put a hand to her forehead. Why would I even think to know that? Her thoughts came to a hiatus. She shook her head. Snap out of it Carol! You don't know anything about him, not even his name . . . much less if he is married. As the elevator casually sank lower into the bowels of the building, she convinced herself to dismiss any recollection of earlier events.

The elevator lurched to a stop. Stepping out onto the hard concrete floor of the parking garage, she clicked her way over to her hover car, a sleek black machine with pinstripes of dusky gray. The engine roared to life when she struck and twisted the key into the ignition. Within a fraction of a second the roar slowed down to a gentle purr. The vortex fuel churned out beneath the hover pad that coated the ventral side of the machine. The gravity field altered beneath it, allowing the sleek machine to rise into the air. Carol's hair flipped about her face as she looked over her shoulder and backed out of the tiny parking spot. She put her foot to the pedal, turning round, and zoomed out of the garage and onto the busy night streets of the city.