Fiona just could not believe how incredibly bored she was. She had settled quickly and efficiently into her room in the up-scale hotel; as she had so many times before--a hundred times or more; at least a dozen times in this same city--this same hotel. Her rather generous expense account afforded her a lovely dinner downstairs--by herself.
It was a well-known problem with business trips; the evenings were generally boring--and lonely--but mercifully short. And Fiona usually had something to keep her occupied--besides preparation for the next day, a necessity she had long since mastered. She always brought along some sort of distraction, be it a book, a puzzle, something streamed off the 'net. But, for some reason, that particular night she just wished she were home.
Home was Toronto, Ontario--the center of the universe. In their late thirties, Marcus and Fiona Farley were a typical, career-driven, yuppy couple, living in an upscale condo, downtown. Despite their seniority--or because of it--they often found themselves flung out into deep-space orbit, anywhere and everywhere across the entire continent.
Travel for work, for both husband and wife, was on a very loosely scheduled basis, approximately once a month. But for both spouses, emergent and urgent situations, for which their in-person presence was required, seemed to come up fairly often, though anything but regularly. Hence, it was rather difficult keeping track of the traveling company representatives and troubleshooters--that is, each other.
Marcus had left for Seattle two days before Fiona, expecting to work with three clients there. Two days later Fiona flew to Denver for a few straight forward touch-base meetings with a couple clients. For Marcus these business trips were just, "Same old, same old--ho hum." Fiona had just reached the veteran stage, and, although, initially, she had seen her solo business trips as being exciting adventures; a chance to exercise her independence and express her confidence, now, she thought they were pretty much a waste of time, accomplishing things she could just as readily have done by email. Indeed, these so-called necessary field trips were getting old rather quickly.
Fiona had resisted calling her husband right away, instead, deciding to wait until closer to their regular check-in call time. Which, given the time-zone differences, would be in the evening, well after dinner, in fact, just before bedtime. It occurred to her, in the meantime, that maybe she should do something proactive to fight the creeping malaise that was threatening to overwhelm her.
Fiona had always packed some sort of party dress, just in case the hosting company put on an evening social; which they occasionally did. Getting dolled up to attend a party with a bunch of virtual strangers wasn't a whole lot of fun, but at least it broke the tedium. In an attempt to stave off today's fearsome monotony, Fiona decided to get dressed up--out of her work clothes--and go down to the lounge for a drink. She had taken off her panty hose--relieved to be free of it at the end of the working day--and put on the thigh-high, stay-up stockings she kept in reserve.
The so-called party dress was Fiona's version of an LBD. It was charcoal gray, with glittery accents, and, she realized, was the shortest dress she owned. It was a sort of modified A-line, with a clingy elastic top, fitted with bra-cups, and while it could be worn strapless, Fiona always used the included spaghetti straps. Her spike heel sandals matched the dress--charcoal with glitter; and a little, inconspicuous matching gray wallet--or clutch purse--completed the look.
Looking almost stable in her not quite familiar heels, she caught herself wondering why she had packed such uncomfortable shoes. She casually sauntered up to the bar, hopped up on a stool, and ordered a drink. Scanning the dimness of the room Fiona was seized by the feeling that, inasmuch as she was not going to a party, she might be just a tad overdressed--or underdressed, depending on your point-of-view. Nonetheless, regardless of her ensemble being inappropriate or not, she sat and sipped her Cosmo.
While the dress and heels were fine for party-wear, perched on her bar-stool, as she was, Fiona was completely unaware of the amount of leg she exposed; indeed, as she crossed her legs, she attractively displayed more than a glimpse of her stocking-tops. In the dim closeness of the lounge, her party-dress, and accoutrements, looked like nothing more or less than a trolling outfit. And it was that, that caught Sid's attention the moment Fiona had entered.
Sitting at the bar, in the lounge, dressed to the nines, Fiona was disappointed at the lack of fanfare--the absence of shooting stars and fireworks. She still felt, not just bored to tears, but uncharacteristically lonely. Nursing her first post-dinner drink, shoulders slumping, Fiona sadly decided to return to her room--when a fresh drink arrived. "From an admirer," the server said, cryptically.
"Well, this changes things," Fiona decided, picking up the new drink and scanning the room, while she sipped. Quickly she spotted a man, sitting alone, and watching her intently. As their eyes met, he nodded. Correctly assuming, him to be her benefactor, she nodded back at him, raising her glass in a silent gesture of acknowledgement.
Fiona watched him rise almost lazily from his seat, drink in hand, and meander across the lounge floor, approaching her place at the bar circuitously. His smile was, she thought, rather charming--the corners of his mouth turned up as if from some secret amusement. Stopping at the empty spot next to her, he asked, "May I join you?" his voice smooth and, somehow, inviting.
"Be my guest." Fiona reflexively shifted her body to make room for him.
"Thank You." He slid easily onto the stool. Fiona watched him closely, as if she expected something to happen. He stared back, equally intensely. He liked the way her face was a perfect meld of confusion and curiosity.
"I--er--ah..." she sputtered as he settled on the stool next to her.
"Let me guess:" he said, softly. "You've never done anything like this before--ever." Fiona's eyes went wide, but she didn't speak. "Don't worry. I'm harmless--enough; or like they described earth in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy;" he chuckled, "Mostly harmless." Fiona laughed, in spite of herself.
After a pause in which they contemplated one another, he introduced himself. "Sidney's the name--Sid." And, extending his hand, he inquired, "How's life treating you?"
"Uh, fine. Thanks." Fiona turned on her perch to offer her hand in return. "Er, Hi, Sid. I'm Fiona--F, I, Fee, for short." She wasn't sure why she'd said that. Only her husband, and her aged dad ever called her Fi.
Notwithstanding, Sid grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Enchanté, Fi."
They initially engaged in some wary small-talk, revealing considered details about themselves, while sipping their respective beverages.
"Married. No kids."
"Single--again. One wayward son."
"Home is in Toronto. Both of us, Marcus and I, take frequent business trips throughout Canada and the States."
"Home--or home-base, for what it's worth, is generally San Diego. I'm a traveling sales rep--virtually always on the road."
As they chatted, Fiona thought to herself, "Hmmm, an interesting, rather engaging conversationalist. Maybe a bit forward, but certainly not too pushy--or for that matter, not overly overtly macho, either." She was somewhat surprised to find herself actually relaxing, and enjoying his company. Of course, multiple Cosmopolitans didn't hurt. Yes, she had no reason to even suspect that Sid was really a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing. Indeed, he was--or, at least, he considered himself a skilled and cunning, if somewhat benign predator, relentless in his pursuit of the perfect prey--the perfect one-nighter.
Although, maybe, in truth, he was not so much a predator as an opportunist--albeit a serial opportunist. Sid held firm to the belief that there's no such thing as a bad one-night-stand when you're on the road. So, he created his own opportunities--any port in a storm, as it were.
The ideal prey, as far as he was concerned was a bored, lonely, early- to mid-middle-aged looker--preferably still married--curious, perhaps, but still faithful. Fiona checked all the boxes. "She just might be," he purred to himself, "the perfect one-night standee."
While they chatted, he repeatedly leant in to talk, frankly and conspiratorially, touching her hand or arm at every chance. Fiona saw him signal subtly for another round--her third Cosmo! It'd been quite a while since she'd had that much. She felt that she needed to make a token objection, if only for the sake of perceived decorum. "Are you trying to get me tipsy?" she giggled, coyly,
"Who?" Sid gasped in mock horror. "Moi?" Fiona's laugh swept any hint of objection clean out of her mind.
Sid suddenly sat up on his stool and looked about. "Hey there, Fi, doesn't it feel like we're kinda exposed up here? Sorta like we're on stage, or something?" Fiona looked around, and had to agree with him. "Maybe," he said, "we could move to that booth over there--have a bit more privacy. Unable to come up with a reason why not, Fiona found herself sliding into a rather dimly lighted booth nestled in a back corner of the lounge--with Sid, her new friend, cosied up beside her. Sid had signaled the barkeeper, once more, to send over another round -- the fourth, which arrived just as Fiona was trying, unsuccessfully, to insert a bit of space between herself and Sid.
Taking the proffered drink, she thanked the waitress, then, with an air of surprised disbelief, she turned to her companion, asking sincerely, "Are you hoping to take advantage of me?" Sid just looked at her innocently, sipping his light beer, and histrionically batted his eyes. "Ain't gonna happen," she said, summoning up as much confident resolve as her current state of mild intoxication could manage. Flashing her ring, she stated, "I'm married," as if saying it completely put an end to that train of thought.
Sid slowly cranked up the charm as the drinks slowly disappeared and were replaced by fresh ones. "Someone as young and..."
"Get out of here! I'm not young!"
"I'm guessing you're not any older than me."
"And how old are you?"
"Twenty-seven..."
