Their eyes met over the coffee machine; twice replaced because his youthful lust couldn't be contained any longer and Trotsky had let his boss take him over it. It fell, and he spent the next two weeks picking coffee beans out of his slowly growing beard. He'd shaved if off after Gaddafi told him it made him look like a teenager. Trotsky dropped the polystyrene cup he'd been filling with espresso ingredients ready to give to this customer, and the charming stranger simply laughed and asked, "Startled?"
Trotsky could do nothing but swallow.
His eyes darted left and right, trying in vain to avoid the piercingly sensual stare of the other man. The newcomer laughed again, a masculine sound that somehow evoked imagery of rippling muscles and oiled pectorals - Trotsky could already appreciate that beneath the vintage Westwood tweed jacket was a fine body - and cocked his head to the side.
"You got a name as pretty as that mouth?" he asked. Trotsky blushed furiously.
"I - Leon," he answered. The other man tilted his head to the other side contemplatively before offering his hand. 'I'd like to do more than shake it', Leon thought, but took it anyway and the two men shook hands in a manner not becoming of their heterosexual facades.
"Joseph," the other man stated. Leon smiled.
It had been a good start to his shift.