’ So I went to work at her. Years before, in the summer of my nineteenth year, I had a temporary job in a coffee shop near an army camp. It was seve... miles from my home at the time, a tiny bedsit off Grosvenor Road, Aldershot. The lady who owned the cafe was a doe-eyed Italian senora with masses of ringlets the same colour as her coffee beans, her skin the hue of cappuccino. She was early forties and possessed of a figure like Sophia Loren. She was, in short, exquisite to look at, and, as I was. . . It’s rude to stare . . .’ He said simply. I blushed slightly and returned my eyes and hands into the soapy water. ‘What were you thinking?’ He asked lightly. ‘Oh . . . nothing . . . Just . . . Stuff . . .’ I answered, blushing harder now. ‘Sylar?’ I did not have to say anything. My cheeks were a bright pinkish red now. He chuckled and continued. ‘What about?’ ‘Umm . . .’ I laughed nervously. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ He chuckled heartily at that. ‘Sure . . . Why not?’ I giggled. More

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