RASHMI NAIR – 12 OCT
I'm sure I floated all the way back to our room, feeling the butterflies in my stomach carrying me the whole way.The following morning, I packed my boys off and nearly ran down to the beach. She was standing there waiting for me, wearing the bikini she had bought, and it looked great! We hugged, and she told me that she had modeled it for her husband when she got home yesterday, and he loved that she had dared to buy a bikini. After a few twirls, he had grabbed her, thrown her to the bed, and had the most passionate sex they had had in a long time. I teased her about being sore, and she laughed, and told me that it was all my fault, so I would be held responsible for her recuperation. Those words instantly ignited the butterflies again, as my mind wondered exactly what she had meant by that. She grabbed my hand and we walked down the beach together, arm in arm, until we found a suitable spot. We ignored the resort chairs, instead laying our towels on the warm sand and plopping. Back in my car, I pull out Ben Sheppard’s card again and pull out my phone. The private cell number is written precisely. The ten numbers look as if they’ve been printed out. They maintain the same bottom line and are of equal height and spaced evenly. I put the card to my nose. I don’t know why I expected it to smell of something—Old Spice or Musk—one of those man scents that’s not really pleasant but not bad either. Nothing. It’s just ordinary scentless paper. My car’s clock says it’s a quarter to two. I remember my two o’clock underwriters meeting and put the card and phone into my bag and start heading downtown. Maybe I’ll have Danielle, my assistant, cancel on Ben Sheppard. I’m running late and by the time I park my car it’s 2:05 and I skip my office and go right to the fourteenth floor to meet with the underwriters. They want to complain some more about my fellow commercial lenders and me sending them unsuitable loan applications. They do this about every three months—as if.
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