Michael was in the kitchen table doing some work, a pen in his hand and a lightened cigarette between his fingers, the afternoon sun shining through the window. The table was full of papers, numbers, numbers and more numbers, a bottle and a glass of gin.

He was concerned with the work until he heard some clicks of heels going downstairs to him.

“Where are you going?”

He said with his brows furrowed and taking a drag of his cigarette, eyes fixed on the papers.