To New Friendships...

As he sat in the slightly wobbly chair, he found himself wringing his hands and rubbing them on his gray pants. The moisture on his hands matches the perspiration slowly beading upon his forehead. He didn't understand why he was so nervous. Maybe it wasn't nervousness, was it excitement? It had been a long while since he did an escapade such as this. He thought he was past that sort of longing and desire. He was fifty and comfortable in his life. He chuckled and grab a rock glass of Bourbon and gulp it down. Holding the bottle, it slid out of his hands and slammed back onto the faux wood table that had nicks and scratches along its top.

"Shit," He said aloud before wiping his hands again on his pants and angrily gripping the bottle again. Pouring out his annoyance into the glass, it settles him and once again lifts the glass and sips this round slowly, letting the precious elixir slide down his throat. If anyone paid attention, they would notice the bulbous lump of liquor making its way through his esophagus, past his Adam's apple, and toward his chest. Ahhh, yes, that is where the warmth settles, and he with it. He looks at his Tag Heuer Formula 1 watch and notices that it was later than he thought it was. He loves the watch; even though he wanted to buy it for himself, he had gotten it as a gift. The thought of the gift-giving made him look away from the watch. He wanted to buy it, and he felt beholding that he didn't purchase it. Almost jealous that they knew what he wanted, for he never shared his desire for the watch. The blue face was just the right color. However, it was a little fancier than his style of dress. He bought off the rack, and the grays, midnight blues, browns, and of course, onyx black suits that hung in his closets screamed middle management. The only thing that stood out was the watch, and loving it was kind of a shackle around his wrist. He suddenly hears the door and looks up to the 5 feet that laid between him and it. The electronic key made a beeping noise before the guest he was waiting for came walking in.

The carpet hushed the noise her red-bottomed heels would have made and allowed her to seem as if she was tiptoeing towards the medium-sized man sitting in a chair that may be too small for him in the future years of decreased exercise and possible sciatica. It is the legs ascending out of those shoes that are the target of his focus. It matched the photo gallery of her Bio on the dating site they both belonged to. Making his way up mocha members, toned and smooth. By the time it takes him to set his eyes on her pelvis, she is standing right before him. 5'6 in those heels and him being 6'1, even sitting, he was closer to her face than her towering over him. A tiny droplet of drool pooled in the corner of his mouth, and he needs to touch her but decides against it. This ache he was feeling is welcoming, comfortable since he knew the pain would subside soon.

"Hey, Whit?"

"Hey Lady"

"Uh, sorry I'm late; my uber took forever through this rush hour traffic. You just had to pick a hotel downtown?"

Waiting for her to finish the sentence as he stared at her lips, plum-colored and full. A smile forms on her face, or a smirk, possibly mischief.

"It's the nicest hotel I know. I wanted us to meet somewhere descent. First impression and all."

"Well, it is a beautiful hotel. So, I see you started the party without me."

He quickly turns to the bottle and, without incident, grabs it and began to pour two fingers of hooch into the second rock glass that sits next to his.

"Ugh, no, I don't drink hard liquor too much. I brought a fantastic Merlot; it's my favorite wine. I drink red wine for the antioxidants."

She was laughing as she found her last statement ridiculous and funny. Whit chuckle, not sure if she meant what she said or was attempting jest. He notices that she is carrying an oversized Louis Vuitton night bag, and out of this bag, a bottle of wine emerges. She also pulls out two wine glasses by their stems.

"You brought wine glasses?"

He laughed then and shook his head in disbelief. She backs away from him and slightly leans on the wall to his right. Inbetween the woodless table and the entertainment center. A small space, but her slender body seems to fit perfectly. Her medium-length auburn hair spread out in a splash-like motif on the wall and her back arched. Another pose he remembers seeing in a picture that she had taken for her profile. It was black and white, and she was wearing an oversized Men's white shirt. By the time he saw this picture, he was hooked and knew he wanted her. He enjoyed the feeling of jealousy that sprouted up, watching her in that frame. It was a man's garment, and he let his mind wander on who it could have been. He decided to send her a message to get an answer to the burning question in his mind. He had to know; one doesn't showcase and does not want people to inquire. He formed the perfect message. He had been only a member for about 3months. It popped up on his social media timeline, and he ignored the lure of "Meet women in your area" He was diligent until a message appeared and someone sent him a "poke" Curiosity got the better of him. Now he is there with this woman that he calls Lady, but her name is Miranda. The particulars of her life he combed over as they shared written messages. Then funny quips and GIFs that they both found amusing.

Innocent enough to commune with a 27year old who listened to the Eagles and knew David Coverdale. He eluded to liking newer music and hummed along to songs she would send him. Miranda was the reason he got Spotify and had him drinking carrot juice and alkaline water. He's happy to see she was not offended about the jab of the wine glasses and slid out of her shoes. The sight of her french manicured toes against those tanned feet encouraged him to stand up and meet her in the middle of the room. They embraced each other gently. "Yes, slowly," he thought. He was taking in the floral smell coming from her wrist, neck, and hair. The smallness of her waist and the protruding hips perfectly proportioned to her body. Her hands rest on his shoulders weighted by the wine and look into his eyes.

"Do you have a wine opener?"

"What?"

"I mean, do you think they have a wine opener. The wine has a cork."

"I can look, but I am sure if the room doesn't have one, we can call down to the front desk."

Miranda nodded to this revelation and looked behind her to the entertainment center, which had drawers attached to the front. Whit reluctantly broke his hold and began to open the drawers. Notes pad, pen, and Bible sat in the first drawer, and then he remembered the small refrigerator on the right of the Smart television and opened it. Sure enough, sat a corkscrew hanging on the door. He raises it as if he just found lost treasure, and Miranda claps her hand in delight as she puts the wine and the glasses down on the surface. Whit walks over with the bounty and began to open this Merlot, the liquid that will satisfy his paramour's thirst. He puts on his manly flex and shoves the spiral metal into the flesh of the cork and twists with vigor, hands no longer moist grips the handle, and the thrust digs deeper and deeper. It reaches the depth, and he pulls out with an assured strength, and the oak bark barrier breaks free and not a drib of wine wasted. It isn't every day that the modern man shows his brawn to his woman. That part of the office dwellers gets buried under traffic, lawnmowers, and late-night ice cream sundaes. However, when he is sharing with Miranda, he felt mighty and a confident problem-solver. He looks her straight into her hazel eyes and releases a deep pocket of air from his lungs. Miranda inhales at this motion and takes in the same breath.

"Let me pour, and you sit down on the bed."

Miranda is saying while placing her hand on his soft belly and pushing him aside. Whit walks backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He didn't want her out of sight from this moment. He let his hands find the bed, and he sat. Watching her pour the wine seems like magic. She was tilting the glass with just enough force for the potion to glide into the glass. Seemless dripping and caressing the crystal reminds him of long kisses and sharing glances. Once she finished filling both goblets, she sat next to him and handed him one.

"What should we cheer too?"

Whit thought a million things at once. Give honor for high heels and auburn hair and hazel eyes and Merlot. Instead, he gave a turning of his head.

"To new friendships and long life?"

"Friendship, Whit? Is that what this is?"

Whit, afraid he may have insulted this beauty in his midst, gave a broad smile and showed his perfect veneers.

"Yeah, until you tell me different."

Silent contentment filled her face, and they lifted their glasses together

"I can live with that. To new friendships and long life."

As the glasses clinked, some of the contents sloshed around the glass. It causes them both to jerk a little sure that the wine would spill on their clothing. Once they averted the clash, they both sipped slowly; notes of cherries and yeast hit their palette, and you can see pure delight glow onto Miranda's face. The produce of the mixture only passed his lips. He was maybe taking too much too soon. It hit the back of his gullet and slammed its way down his stomach. He seems as if he was going to return to the sender but successfully fought it back.

"Nice, right?"

"Oh...yeah...it's....dry."

"Right, that's what I like about it."

Whit takes another drink, and the second time it goes down as one would think it would, smoother.

"Maybe we should order something to eat?"

He said as he grabbed both glasses and walked them over to the countertop

"Are you hungry, Whit?"

Devilishly Miranda looking up to the man that was to be her lover. Whit rushes over and, with calm force, brings Miranda onto her feet and tries to kiss her mouth. She turns away, exposing her neck, and invited his lips to come into contact with her body for the first time. He is working his way down her neck, and suddenly a powerful urge to regurgitate seizes him and cause him to push her onto the bed. Pain and confusion are entering his mind. He goes over what he has ingested in the last hours that could cause this. Coffee and bagel for breakfast. Doughnuts at the office meeting. Turkey salad on a croissant for lunch and almonds and cola to pick me up before coming to his hotel room. Looking towards the table, he looks at the Bourbon and the bottle of wine. "Maybe I shouldn't have mixed liquor with that fruit drink" A surge of pain in his chest thrust him upright, and he sees the panic on Miranda's face.

"Are you all right? Like for real, you are looking pale."

Eyes widening, he could imagine throwing up on the sexist woman that ever lived.

"I'll be right back. I need to freshen up in the bathroom."

He speeds about 3 feet and burst into the large washroom with force. Making sure he closes the door behind him. The light automatically illuminates, and he sees his face in the mirror. "Oh, when did I get so old." The beads of sweat returned and now marching down his face. Bowels rumbling and heat rising and causing a flushing effect. He grips the side of the sink and feels his breathe beginning to quicken and getting shorter and shorter. "Oh God, I can't pass out here" Now, the initial nervousness is now full-fledged panic. "Damn it...My fucking wife will kill me if I pass out here," Looking down at his left hand for reassurance and realizing that the band is not where it should be, but the side pocket in his suit jacket. Strangely he wanted that ring. Gazing at his 3,000 dollar shackle, the time read 7:30p, and pictures of his wife flood his thoughts. She is working in the garden and cooking in their kitchen. The surprise birthday party presented the watch he would look at in the men's health magazines. He made her a promise after the first three affairs; never again would he betray her trust. Be careless with her feelings. Break her heart. He meant them, and he swears he did. That photo, that message. Those eyes and he once again felt exalted. He felt wanted. His wife wants him but is it the same after so many years. Is it the same as the want and thirst and hunger of a 27year old with plump lips? As the thought of losing his wife starts to confound him, his knees buckle. Trying not to fall, he is white-knuckling the porcelain, and then the immense pain shoots through his chest cavity and makes its way to his heart. "Oh no...Not a fucking heart attack?" Doughnuts and Mayo he has had in this life now replace images of his wife and even Miranda.

"Hey Whit, are you alright? Like, should I call someone? I'm sorry you got sick."

He couldn't answer, and a series of grunts escape him as he drops to his knees. His peripheral vision is narrowing, and Miranda's voice is getting further and further away.

"Barbara?"

He's floating, like sailing at sea, wading, and waning. "The pain is subsiding," he thought as his eyes closed softly.

When Miranda finally entered the bathroom, she was wearing latex gloves. Her hair was now pulled back into a tight bun, and the lipstick was somewhat smeared. Approaching Whit slowly, she says his name in a whisper.

"Whit? Honey, you okay? Can I do something to help?"

A gurgling sound leaves Whit's lips, and she realizes that Whit is down for the count. Closer, she looms over his slumped body and leans down. Well, not much mess other than the sweat and the drool leaking from his mouth. Checking to see if he was still breathing and discover it was shallow at best and not much left at that. She stands up with the same contentment and exits the bathroom. Out of her oversized bag, she removes bleach in a spray bottle and paper towels. She looks around the room, trying to remember what surfaces she may have touched. She tried to be careful not to touch anything she wasn't going to be able to destroy or take with her. She remembers the doorknobs of the front door and the bathroom. WHich she quickly wipes down. She was leaning on the wall, and she goes to examine it. A single auburn hair embedded in the wallpaper; she carefully picks it up and marches straight back into the bathroom. Stepping over Whits bloated middle-aged body, she drops the hair in the toilet and flush. Having to be sure it went down, she watched the swirling water disappear and reappear without the evidence. After going over other parts of the room, she took another swig of her glass. "It is an excellent wine," Thinking maybe recorking it and taking it with her. She thinks against it and that it went down the drain. Easily wrapping the two glasses in one of the hotel towels and removing the cork from the screw, she entombed the cylinder and the cork into her bag. Last glances around, and she is sure nothing of her lived in this place. Going into her bag again, she removes her gloves and pulls out a phone. The gloves are tossed in, and the phone comes out. She dials a number, and the ring is loud and urgent.

"Hi, there. Yeah, I'm here. Nope, it was kind of easy, to be honest. The funny thing is I think I heard Whit call your name when he was in the bathroom. Oh no, I didn't leave a trace. So, I'm getting out of here, would like my gift waiting where you promised. Good. I want to say I am sorry for your loss Mrs. Whit Murray...."

With one hand motion, she hung up from the call. Putting her shoes on, she is debating turning all the lights off. Which she does, and taking tissue from a dispenser near the bed, she opens the door, and as it was closing, she used the tissue to place the do not disturb sign on the door. Her remarkable heels can be heard on the tiles, walking down the hall, and with a strutting gait, she returned from which she came.