I remember thinking at the time that this was like a dream Publilius Syrus would have dreamt except a bit more non-lugubrious, with red rose petals cast hither and yon about our hotel room, a half-drunk second bottle of brut in the champagne bucket, the ice a slosh of thawing desire, and the sound of her slightly-irritating laugh (it was her snort that punctuated the end of her laugh that was the source of said irritation, not the laugh proper) as she lay in a robe of sheer silk of indeterminate color on the red leather Meridienne situated near the recently-opened doors of the balcony musing to me that I really should get a decent haircut as she held out her empty glass to me and smiled her smile, and as I arose to take her flute, I became cognizant that she’d eaten all the blanched asparagus, which I decried the injustice of to her, and at that point she said ‘the ends may justify the means, but all’s well that ends well.’
I refilled her glass. Slowly.
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