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Location: Blogs Bruce's BlogSands of Time |
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| Posted by: brucesarte |
10/12/2008 |
“Time for bed, old man,” I murmured to myself.
That’s when I heard it, though I think I felt it as much as I heard it.
It was soft, so soft it was barely audible. It was coming from down the
hall. Crying. A woman was crying. I followed the muffled sounds of
tears to the Jefferson Suite. Emily was upset, and at 4 in the morning?
Before I could think about what I was doing, I was knocking on the door.
“Emily, is everything alright? It’s Sam.”
The crying stopped. And there was only silence for what seemed like the
longest time.
“Listen, if you need anything please, just” and the door opened. Emily
stood there, looking absolutely beautiful. She had on a powder-blue
cashmere sweater that enhanced her emerald-green eyes and a dark blue
skirt with no stockings. I barely even noticed that her eyes were
swollen with tears. I just stared into them for a long moment. They had
a hold on me again. She sniffled, and it brought me back.
“Why are you”—sniffle—“here?”—sniffle.
“II was just, wellto be honest, I was having a difficult night and
decided to take a walk around the place before heading off to catch a
couple of hours of sleep.”
Honest? Yeah, that’s what that was.
“And I heard you crying. I was concerned---is everything okay?”
What a stupid question. A pretty woman is crying and I’m asking her if
everything is okay. She should just slam the door in my face for asking
stupid questions. Instead, she stifled a cry and just shook her head.
“No,” she whimpered and suppressed another cry. I wanted to hold her, to
pretend that I could make whatever was wrong right again.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said simply and without any real emotion.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go downstairs, I’ll open the pub,
and we can have a drink?”
“No, I don’t thinkI mean, I don’t want to go downstairs. I don’t want I
still have that bottle of wine, maybe I mean, would you mind coming in
and...” She trailed off and looked down at her cute little toes.
“Sam, can I talk to you? I mean, really talk to you? I need to talk to
someoneto you, I think.” Her face was questioning and appealing to me help, maybe even for answers. She looked away, and I knew that she
wanted me to, no, needed me to come in.
“Of course.” She had already turned to retreat into her room, as if she
knew I would say yes and follow. Was my lonely desperation that obvious?
Or could she really read my mind? Either way, I followed her into her
room quite willingly, trying not to get too close. I wasn’t entirely
sure I trusted myself alone in the room with her, considering my
condition. I could see that she had already taken the bottle out and put
it on the table, perhaps contemplating drinking it alone? I knew how she
hated the idea of drinking alone. Maybe she was anticipating someone
else’s arrival or mine, even? Dear Lord, I hope I am not that transparent.
And what am I thinking here? What is my motivation for coming in? I
don’t even know. Is it sex? Am I really considering taking advantage of
a guest at my inn? A beautiful, sexy female guest who is clearly upset
and vulnerable? Or am I just so desperate for human interaction with
someone who doesn’t feel sorry for me? Or someone like Nat. Someone who
is constantly judging me. Maybe Natalie was right about my sudden
fascination with Emily. Maybe it was wrong to be here and I should just
walk back out the door. Just then, Emily bent over to pick up a pen off
the floor. The sudden appearance of the soft valley of her breasts
before me chased away the thoughts of Natalie and how wrong this was and
ushered in a burgeoning erection.
As I did my best to think unsexy thoughts, I walked over to the cabinet
in the corner of the room and took out two glasses. I retrieved the
bottle opener from the basket and proceeded to open the bottle of
merlot. Emily sat down in one of the high-back chairs in the sitting
area of the suite, with her legs folded up underneath her. I could see
the tops of her knees peeking out from underneath her skirt. I was so
distracted I almost spilled the wine while pouring it into the glasses.
I walked over and handed her a glass. “For you, my lady.” I offered her
the wine with a smile. I sat down and sipped my wine, but she did not
return my smile.
“So, what’s the trouble tonight, darling?” What was that? Was I
attempting some poor man’s Valentino impression? Weak, even for me—I’m
cheesy but not usually this cheesy. What about her was making me act
this way?
I looked over at what had previously been a warm, welcoming face, but
tonight it was dark, troubled and lost. She stared down into the dark,
rich liquid and drank the red wine as if it were water to quench her
thirst. She still hadn’t looked at me since I sat down. And she appeared
to hold the wine in her mouth for a long moment, savoring its rich
warmth and welcoming flavor. I leaned forward, tried to look into her
face and was about to speak when the words just shot out of her.
“I don’t know where to begin or what to say. It’s I was.” She stopped
herself, closed her eyes and took another drink, steeling herself to
broach a subject that was apparently a sensitive and difficult one.
“I am married.” And the look of shock on my face was clear and instant.
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