He sits back in his black, leather chair, makes a steeple with his fingers, and is definitely in charge, while I sit on the edge of my seat, lean forward and gibber like the monkey I really am.
He sends me an email, ‘Since im back idont find myself here and cant wait to be back there.’ I know what he means.
We’re drunk and happy, and howl into the night, like wolves in the forest.
Israelis, in case you don’t know, aren’t great at customer relations.
He says I should come back to the table and talk to him more, and blows me a kiss. I wink at him, like a playboy.
Tim, infuriated by the sounds of a mother playing with her baby, who wouldn’t be, poured a glass of water onto them from his balcony.
Nathan, whose greatest fear is that he’ll develop a resistance to Botox, returned from Frankfurt with the face of an inexpressive eight year old.