Hotel bar. 8pm on a Thursday night.

Zenia taps her pointer finger idly on the marble bartop, ponders the rail thin 20-something bartender behind it. He shakes a cocktail and pours something greenish into a glass- Chartreuse perhaps?

Another city on the rotation, another client site to visit. Its all led her here, to a thick cloud of ennui that hangs over her regardless of where her body takes her.

Maybe becoming a strong independent career woman was an overrated choice. Maybe the old fart at the end of the bar could be sugar daddy material.

Zenia shakes these indulgent thoughts from her head. She would hate to be under any man’s thumb (literally or figuratively) and besides, she’s probably too old for them anyway.

Taking the last sip of her Negroni (sans orange slice twist, the horror!) she stands up, stiffens her spine, and heads for the elevators. After all, tomorrow morning she’s due for another flight.