Part 7: Savor Again

I don’t know what it was that woke me up.  It certainly wasn’t the sun, because nothing but blackness seeped around the edges of the hotel’s blackout curtains.  A glance at the courtesy beside clock told me that it was 4:37 in the morning, and a quick pat of the mattress beside me confirmed that Jon was gone after giving me the most intense and satisfying sexual experience of my life.

While it wasn’t surprising that he’d left when there would be least chance of having to say goodbye, I was still unaccountably disappointed.  It would’ve been nice to have one more vigorous session with the head trainer at JBJ’s Workout Club before my one-day membership expired. 

Forget that I turned and twisted more than a Russian gymnast for two hours before his first orgasm (my third).  Completely disregard that I’d woken up from a little nap (black-out) to find him licking my girly parts like a tasty delicacy before starting round-two of the Olympic trials.  Pay no mind to the water sports events that almost had me melting down the drain as a boneless pile of goo.

I was greedy enough to want one more chance with the most thorough and proficient lover in the history of lovers.  Not just mine, but anybody’s.  He… was… that… good.

My blissful replay of evening past was interrupted by the rude knock of Mother Nature on my bladder door, so I tossed back the covers and swung my legs out of the bed.  The pain almost had me gasping, but it didn’t stop a sleepy smile of satisfaction.

I was in no position to complain – about anything.  My body ached from hither to yon in the most sinfully intimate ways because I’d overdosed on physical pleasure.  That made life pretty damn good, even if I did walk funny.

Walking funny into the bathroom, I turned on the light to take care of business and caught sight of the huge Jacuzzi tub.  That might be a nice way to start the day, but then I realized it might ease those aching muscles.  I’d stick with a shower and keep my hedonism hangover.

The glass shower stall started to steam as soon as I turned on the water, and I decided to let it warm up for a minute.  In the meantime, I reached for a fluffy bath towel to have at the ready when my shower was over.  It was then that I saw the note propped between the mirror and the sink faucets, and one side of my mouth curved as I picked up the hotel stationery with the masculine scrawl. 

Call the desk when you’re ready to go home 

A car is waiting

Take care, My Funny Valentine

The other side of my mouth joined in on the smile.  There were those manners again, and I was simply ecstatic to find out he was everything I’d ever dreamed him to be – and more. 

A little rough, a little thoughtful and a whole lot satisfying.  What else could I possibly have hoped for?

Well, besides a repeat performance, that is. 

Four hours and several cups of coffee later, I managed to drag my sore tushy into the front door of CitiBank, grateful that it was casual Friday.  There was a casual “uniform” required to participate, but I didn’t even care that I was wearing an ugly bank-logoed golf shirt with my jeans.  At least I was wearing tennis shoes and had an open appointment calendar today. 

It was both a blessing and a curse, that open schedule.  While I wasn’t required to schmooze and dazzle customers, I was required to do my periodic analysis of accounts, comparing projections to the actual numbers.  It wasn’t a fascinating task on any given day.  Today, I might very well fall asleep with dollar figures and decimal points swimming like floaters in my eyes. 

In the time that I did manage to stay awake, there was still no guarantee that my analysis was worth a damn because my thoughts – the non-perverted variety – kept drifting to Jon. 

I’d give anything to know what he was thinking today.  Was he the least bit sore after his round of gymnastics last night?  Was he walking around with a smile and an attitude only possible after a round of monkey sex that would make the entire Planet of the Apes population jealous?  Or had he simply walked away and dismissed me as he’d probably done to others over the years?

Sadly, I’d never know.

And I had to be okay with that. 

It was kind of like knowing the cure for cancer and not being able to use it.  Except that I wouldn’t get a Nobel Prize for knowing that a rock god liked it a little rough.   Life was cruel that way sometimes.

Three more cups of coffee and lunch didn’t offer much relief to my lethargy.  I couldn’t even work up a good dirty smirk for my carrot sticks today, and it would be a good while before the battery-operated alternative saw life outside the nightstand drawer.  I was soooo well-satisfied that spending Saturday in bed – sleeping – was a legitimate option.

Things got so bad that I couldn’t even wait until two o’clock for my usual caffeine fix.  It was twenty past one when I dragged my sorry ass over to the diner.  The door was heavy, and the floor was made of quicksand.  The struggle to pull my Nikes out of the muck and mire that was only found in the deepest, darkest jungles and this diner...  It was real. 

And I swear, the sleepier I got, the weirder my imagination and sense of humor became.  It didn’t take Sigmund Freud to know I wouldn’t pass the psych evaluation today, but the padded room sounded pretty good, so I’m not sure I’d quibble about it.

Waving languidly at Haley and Natalie, I trudged the five-hundred miles to the counter and plunked my sorry ass down at the counter. 

“Christ on a crutch,” Marjorie drawled, her crayon-tinted eyebrows lifting as far as her newest Botox treatment would allow.  “You look like something that the cat dragged in.”

“I feel like something it yacked up, and I’m hoping nine is my lucky number.  The eightth cup today might as well have been NyQuil for all energy it gave me.  If you have an IV drip, I’d take it.”

“Honey, you don’t need caffeine, you need about three days’ sleep.”

Nonetheless the Java Goddess reached for my favorite hazelnut brew and poured a really big cup.  Not the usual paper kind, but the Styrofoam one that people used to take sodas out of here.  Styrofoam vat, really.  

It was perfect.

“You really do love me,” I sighed, waving away the lid she offered so that I could hang my nose over the edge of the cup and inhale the nutty goodness. 

“Unless I’m misinterpreting the telltale signs, I’m not the only one.”

The snort escaped before I could stop it.  Marjorie wasn’t exactly the type to keep her opinion to herself, and it always made me laugh.  Every now and again, I wondered if this is who she really was, or if this was a role she adopted when coming to work - the classically nosy and brash waitress.  Like those girls that climbed on a Greyhound bound for New York to take their shot at Broadway, except this was her Broadway.

“Oh, you are definitely are the only one.  Love had nothing to do with my very long night, but I'm not unhappy about it.”

“Yeah?  That good, huh?”  She folded her arms and cocked one hip to lean against the counter.  Business was slow at this time of day, so she was apparently going take advantage of the down-time to live vicariously. 

“Better,” I swore as my throat burned from the scalding drink of coffee.  “People like that don’t really exist.  It may have been a very elaborate hallucination, in fact.  But if it was… I’d like an entire field of the mushrooms that caused it.”

“Ah, to be young and in lust.”  Marjorie’s laugh was more like a cackle as her eyes slid to what I presumed to be an approaching customer when she asked,  “What can I do for you?”

“Delivery for Valentine.”

My brow fell low over my eyes.  Speaking of hallucinations…

“No Valentine here, buddy.  Sorry.”

While Marjorie rebuffed the guy, I swiveled my stool to find that the voice was attached to a deliveryman – and he was bearing flowers.

“I’m Valentine.”

“You’re what?”

“Tiny’s short for Valentine,” I murmured as the arrangement slid onto the counter beside me. 

The vase wasn’t actually a vase, but what one would call a rich wooden urn – just not the kind you stored a loved one in.  Short and squarish with gracefully arched edges and an open top, it held a stunning assortment of ivory roses,  hydrangeas and another little flower I wasn’t familiar with.  They were interspersed with dark ferns, something that looked like stems from cotton plants and some other greenery that could’ve been weeds for all I knew.

I’m not typically a fan of flowers, because I see something like this and hear the flush of a cash toilet.  Why pay that money for “live” flowers that were already dead and didn’t know it yet?  A hundred bucks for a few days of pretty wasn’t cost-efficient in my book. 

These, however, were gorgeous… and silk.  They’d last forever.

“Sign here, please.”

Holding out an open hand for the pen, I scribbled my name as my heart felt like it was beating for the first time today.  There were two people who knew me only in the context of this diner – and both were musicians. 

This was going to be really awkward if Dave’s name was on the card.

I was so flustered that I even fished out a tip for the guy, which I had a fundamental opposition to.  If it got him out of here so that I could open that cute little envelope, though, five bucks was a small price to pay. 

“Well, now.  What was that you were saying about love – or lack of it?”

“Can it, Marjorie.”  I wasn’t harsh, but I needed a moment here. 

Removing the fun-sized envelope from the plastic pitchfork that held it hostage, I noted that it didn’t feel like the average floral card.  It was thicker and sealed.

Without a hint of class or etiquette, I ripped that little sucker open and found that its contents consisted of one well-folded sheet of notepad paper.  Notepad paper with the Intercontinental logo at the top, with the handwriting recognizable from the remarkably similar note tucked into my purse.

And he thought of me today!  I hadn't been dismissed as a non-event, and that perked me up more than a Starbucks tanker truck.  The grin that stole over my face was almost embarrassing in its size, but I couldn't contain it and didn't particularly want to, so I simply covered it with my fingers as I read the front of the page. 

I enjoyed the chance to have coffee… and cream with you.  So much that I might have to do it again sometime.

Oh sweet baby Jesus was really working that tracksuit because the roses and hydrangeas weren’t ivory, as I first suspected.  They were cream.  In a coffee-colored pot.  A forever reminder of an amazing night - with hope for another one!

If the back of this note compared to the front, I really would pee myself this time. 

Flipping it over for a quick scan had me sighing happily and thanking Mother Nature for keeping my bladder in check.  It was more meaningful to me than the first half, and there was no doubt that it would be read it over and over again until I wore out the creases or cataracts took my sight.  It was that good.

I'd almost give up coffee to savor this.

(FYI - This isn’t a call or text, it’s flowers.  Fake ones, since cheapskates hate the markup on real ones.)

Until we meet again…  jon