So, it was Saturday night. I sat alone in a hotel room with a short bottle of Jameson's, already half empty. A hookup app running on my tablet showed a matrix of local guys as it sat beside my laptop. I half worked on a writing project, half checked the prospects that shuffled on and off the grid displayed on my tablet as the hour grew late.
I'd spent the day at a re-enactment. My Civil War-era costume hung in the closet waiting for use tomorrow. Instead of staying in the campground, though, I'd driven into town for a more modern, more comfortable night's sleep.
And better prospects for company.
Or so I'd thought. Only flakes and picture-collectors with no follow-through responded. I'm getting too old, I guess. I'd had a couple of responses to an ad I'd posted earlier, but those had also failed to materialize. The hour had passed eleven. I should really get some sleep.
A new email appeared on my laptop: "you have a new message—reply to your ad..."
I clicked it. A brief message opened with a picture attached of a dark-skinned round face with frizzy hair. He had a nice smile.
The text of the message was short and to the point. "Still looking? I could come over now."
I clicked reply. "Yes, still looking." I attached a rather more revealing photo than I'd used in my ad. His response came quickly.
"Hot. Where are you?"
I sent him the hotel's address and room number.
"OK. Take me about a half hour to get there. That OK?"
"Yes." I hit send, then noticed the time. Nearing midnight.
I fired up another email. "I'll have to let you in the hotel. They'll have the lobby locked for the night by then. Message me when you're almost here and I'll wait for you in the lobby."
***
His reply that he was near was more like forty-five minutes later, rather than thirty. I grabbed my laptop and took a seat on a sofa in the lobby facing the door. The night clerk was a middle-aged man of South Asian descent. Probably a few years younger than me. We exchanged a greeting, but once it was clear that I wasn't making either a request or a complaint, he left me alone.
A few minutes passed, and then my internet hookup appeared at the door. I got up to let him in before the clerk made it around the desk. He raised eyebrows briefly as I shook hands with the guy, but made no comment as he resumed his station.
My date was tall and a little heavyset, but not flabby. His hair had grown out a little longer since the picture he'd sent, but was still the same style. He wore casual, comfortable clothes: a sweatshirt with an OSU logo, faded jeans, and athletic shoes. I'm a terrible judge of ages, but I guessed he was about thirty-five. He gave the clerk a nervous glance, then glanced toward me. I could almost hear his thoughts. Black guy meeting a white guy almost twice his age after midnight in a hotel. What must the clerk think?
But the clerk didn't meet his glance, and as we entered the deserted hallway to walk to my room, he relaxed. That inviting smile reappeared.
"I'm Steve," I said. He already knew that. It was part of my email address.
