Although I so want it, I’m having trouble visualizing the specifics of this one. Here goes.
You sent us the invitation by email, almost jokingly.
“Come meet me,” you said mentioning a nice hotel downtown. “Room 909. I’ll be waiting. Wear as little as possible.”
She and I meet in the lobby. I’ve been sitting at the bar with a glass of wine, wondering if you are watching from afar. Imagining your face.
When I see her – she’s unmistakable – I abandon my wine and head slowly toward her.
We hug, kiss on the cheek, like old friends. She’s in a short black dress, a gray sweater, and knee-high black boots. She’s beautiful.
“Should we go upstairs, or do you want a drink first?” I ask. We are both a little anxious to discover what we’ve gotten ourselves into.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, cheerful, breathy. “Room 909, right?” she asks.
I nod. We head to the elevator. I half expect to find you waiting inside. You’re not.
We get out on the ninth floor – You’re not in the hallway, either – and turn right, heading down the hall. The hotel is lovely. It’s so nice that I feel a little guilty for being here under these circumstances.
We find the door slightly ajar. She pushes the door open and we go inside, expecting you to greet us. The room is large, with a huge picture window overlooking the glowing nighttime city. There is a king-sized bed, a desk, a lounge chair in the corner, a mini bar. Music oozes from the speakers. Everything we need except you. You are strangely absent.
I close the door behind me, and we stand still for a moment, wondering what to do next. My phone buzzes, and I find that you’ve texted me.
“Make yourselves comfortable. Get undressed. Pour us some champagne.” I notice the bottle cooling on the counter of the mini bar. Three glasses sit next to it.
“I’ll be along soon,” you follow up. I show her the texts. We smile.
“Weird that he isn’t here,” I say. “After all, this is his birthday celebration.” We laugh. I take off my heels by the door, and briefly check the bathroom in case you’re hiding in there. I don’t find you behind the door, in the glass-walled shower, or in the enormous bathtub.
I head over to the dresser, and take off my dress, putting it away. I leave on my ivory lace bra and panties. She is already undressed, her black bra and lace thong outlining her curves, pronouncing them. She’s left on her boots, and is lying on her side on the bed with one leg at a right angle. She has her champagne glass in her hand. I want to take her picture like that, freeze her.
Just then my phone buzzes: “Put your heels back on,” your text says.