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I didn’t think anyone noticed that I hadn’t changed my clothes in a week. No one in my office said anything.

But someone did notice. Her name was Jeanette Alworth. She was a vice president of a law firm that had offices in our building. We met in the ground-floor coffee shop by accident about six months before my first encounter with Mandy.

One day the coffee shop was packed. I was sitting by myself at a table for two. Coffee and a Danish. “Excuse me, would you mind terribly if I sat here?” she asked.

“I’m Jeanette,”

“Matt.”

We didn’t talk much, but two weeks later, “it’s Matt, right? Do you mind?”

This time there were plenty of seats in the coffee shop. “Not at all.”

This time we talked about this and that. She appeared to be well into her fifties, divorced, three adult kids, probably close to my age, and was starting to think about retirement.

I told her about moving to New York from Charlottesville and my work as an Interior Designer.

Then both of us had to get to work. I’d see her now and then, we’d wave or have coffee together, I didn’t think anything of it. Our age difference: she was a high-powered attorney, and I was a relative newbie at my company. Besides, she was always elegantly and stylishly dressed, with heels. Me? If I was certain I wasn’t going to see a client I might wear jeans.

On that Monday after my week with Mandy from Duluth, or should I say with Mandy from Duluth’s pussy, I ran into Jeanette in the coffee shop. “Matt, I saw you last week. I couldn’t help but wonder, what is going on with that boy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last week, same three-piece suit every day. It looked like the same shirt, and definitely the same blue tie with red horses on it. I wasn’t imagining, was I?”

I blushed. “It’s a long story.” One, that I certainly wasn’t going to tell this woman, older than my mother with children older than me.

“Tell you what, Friday, why don’t you come for dinner? Do you like Italian? And you can tell me all about it. I’m curious.”

“I-I-I . . .”

“Just bring yourself; a bottle of Chianti would be nice. 6 o’clock.” She wrote her address and phone number on a napkin.

On Friday, I left work early, took the train home to Brooklyn. After a quick shower, I took an Uber to Jeanette’s Manhattan apartment. I was wearing what I’d call business casual. No tie, no jacket but a nice buttoned-down shirt and dress pants.

I was right on time, and I was dressed appropriately. Jeanette was wearing a tee shirt, jeans and sandals. I’d really never noticed how she looked before except that she was always dressed like she was meeting with a Fortune 500 company. That tee shirt emphasized her tits; I couldn’t help but notice.

As a reminder, short, round Mandy had big, flabby tits and Leeann’s were almost non-existent. I spent almost no time with them; either one of them. There was willing pussy to eat, why should I?

“I just made a pitcher of Whiskey Sours, join me?”

We stood at her kitchen island, drank and chatted while Jeanette

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