Twelve.

That was the number on the card. Why Twelve? What does that mean? He'd had enough of this crap. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of coffee. A woman came up to him.
"I'm sorry but you can't smoke that in here. It's against the law now."
"Fuck. Sorry, I forgot."
"That's alright, a lot of people have been."
He stubbed it out on his shoe. He carried on looking at the card, as if it would suddenly trigger some sense of recognition. Nothing came.
He tried to think of other things, just to take his mind off it for a moment. His mind was blank though. Great time for him to not be able to let his mind wander.
He tried to read the paper, but didn't have the concentration, not today. He'd get a couple of paragraphs into a story and realise he'd taken nothing in and had no idea what he was actually reading about.
He looked around the room. His eyes fixed on one woman in particular. At first he thought he recognised her, then he just couldn't take his eyes off her. Her shoulder length wavy brown hair. Her tanned skin. Her short dark green dress. The way it emphasised her breasts. The way you could see almost all of her right thigh as the dress seemed to end teasingly close to the curve of her bottom. Those legs. Those legs. God, those legs. He wanted to just go up there and kiss those legs all the way up and
"What the fuck are you looking at?!"
"Huh?"
"Gettin' a good look are you then?"
"What? Oh God, I'm really sorry."
"Yeah, go 'ave a wank you fuckin' perv'."

He put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. He arched his head back, looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

Then it came to him.

Twelve.

So that's what it fucking meant.