Lori fingered the room key as she slipped into the lounge. Hotels always made her nervous. She supposed it was the unfamiliar surroundings, the basic fear of the unknown. Who knew what adventure might reside in a hotel lounge? Or was that misadventure? She wasn't sure. She simply knew that as single women she was a bit vulnerable-even in a hotel lounge. As she settled at the bar and ordered a drink, she surveyed the room.
She found the usual number of sales people and vacationers. You could tell the difference. The sales people were road warriors, sipping cocktails or beers with loosened ties or faded makeup. They swapped jokes and stories and recognized each other like soldiers back from foreign duty. There was camaraderie among them not found in the tourists. The tourists sat in couples, in polo shirts and shorts, sampling those drink specials, the ones with fruit and umbrellas. What the heck, they were on vacation, so why not splurge. Sip a SUNDOWNER or BAHAMA FLAMA or some equally horrible drink and pretend it was ambrosia. Munch the free peanuts and tell each other this was the vacation of their lives. Lori recognized the types. She knew them well.
Her glance lingered over a man sitting alone at small table. Younger, handsome, he read a book and sipped some coke and booze concoction. Not a typical road warrior, not a tourist, he looked more like a writer, dressed casually with a few distinct details. Maybe it was a lucky pen in the pocket of his dress shirt or the penny loafers. She wasn't sure. She simply noted a man far more fit and interesting than the pot bellied bar flies eyeing her from the opposite side of the bar. She knew them so well that she could predict when the first free drink came her way. The bartender delivered it and pointed to a portly, balding, florid man at the end of the bar who raised his glass in acknowledgement. She smiled in thanks, knowing his company had just bought her a drink. She hoped he wouldn't take the smile as an overture, but she knew better. In a few minutes, he would mosey down the bar and engage her in chitchat. A few minutes of pleasantries before he became a bit bold, before she would destroy his illusions. No, she wasn't going to spend even five minutes with him. Thanks for the drink but that bought nothing more than a smile.
Although she dreaded the moment, Lori knew it was coming. She watched for it, mindful of the pain it would cause both of them. Why were men so alike? Predators prowling their habitats always on the lookout for easy sex. She supposed it was some kind of genetic thing. If the species were to propagate, then men had to plant their seed often and in various places. While she understood the need, she didn't see herself as contributing to the planting. Couldn't they see that about her? Couldn't they understand that not every pretty woman burned with a secret desire for sex with every man she saw? They were so pathetic at times, so needy and proud when they should be humble. Ah well, at least she understood the game.
She kept a wary eye on her benefactor, and when he launched from his stool, she launched from her own. Grabbing her drink and purse, she fled across the bar to the table of the writer-at least she dreamed he was a writer-and stood there until he looked up.
"You must save me," she said.
A bemused look came over him.
"There's a man at the bar who sent me a drink," she continued. "And for that, he expects to spend some time with me or perhaps lure me into bed, the last place I want to go with him. So, if you want to be a savior, let me sit down for a few minutes. He'll get the message, and I'll be rid of him."
"I've never had the opportunity to be a savior before," he answered. "Have a seat."
She smiled as she sat, thankful and yet amused. Perhaps this young man would possess some charm the others didn't.
"I see you wear no ring. Are you married?" she asked.
"I could tell that I simply haven't found the right woman yet," he answered. "But in fact, I consider myself too young for marriage."
"Too young by whose standards?"
"Mine."
She laughed. "Youth has its advantages."
"So does age."
"You're saying I'm old?"
"On the contrary, I'm saying you're very pretty. But I suspect you already know that."
"You must be older than you look. Most youngsters aren't so charming."
"It's not the years, it's the experiences."
"So, you're experienced?"
"I prefer to think of them as stepping stones across the river of life. If you wish to get someplace, you have to cross on the stones."
"And if you slip and fall into the water?"
"You get wet, and wetness is an experience, isn't it?"
His smirk belied the innocence of his comment. She felt a certain flirtatious heat inside, something not caused by the alcohol. For such a young man, he managed to hold his own. And the smirk didn't diminish his good looks. He was handsome and blessed with a trim body. She couldn't tell too much about him, but she guessed he possessed the virtues of youth.
"What are you reading?" she asked to change the topic.
"A book of poetry."
"Good?"
"No, awful, but then, most modern poetry is terrible. People think that if they honestly drip a series of words on a page, then it's good poetry. It's trash, of course. Good poetry requires discipline, and today's poets treat discipline as a curse. Hence, they create self-satisfying blobs of words that wander aimlessly and produce nothing."
"A kind of poetry self-indulgence?"
"Let's call it what it is," he said. "It's mental masturbation. It gives them great pleasure and does nothing for anyone else."
"I take it then, you're not a fan of it?"
"Masturbation?"
She smiled. "Modern poetry."
"I'd rather talk about masturbation."
She laughed. "How did we get on that topic?"
