(Short and cliched)
It was one of our beta test projects, testing a process I invented. Some billionaire friend of our owner had talked him into having it installed in his Miami mansion, although I had argued at the time that it was still not ready for that level of field testing. I mean, it's one thing to install it here in Ohio, but Florida? Now we must send someone down there regularly to test it and maintain it while it is being tested. It was an unnecessary expense which was being charged against my project. My project that my bonuses would be built on. But the boss is the boss. It's his money. It's only my ego that's hurt when the costs for my project are out of line. He justified it by saying the real test would be the heat and humidity of Florida.
And now of course, there's a massive failure happening, one that's probably beyond the understanding of the repairman we've been sending down to service the equipment. It was obvious that I'd have to go down myself, since I was head on the project. We'd have to schedule a few days, to allow for testing and to run it long enough to ensure the right problem was corrected and that it wouldn't immediately fail again.
Normally, a multiple day trip to Miami, expecting only to have to work a few hours each day, would be a wonderful thing, but Rosalie was off visiting her sister in Denver again. Miami by myself? About all I could expect would be overeating and a probable sunburn. With Rosalie, it would have been dancing, dining, and glorious, sweaty, energetic sex. Both of us love southern Florida, with the heat coming through open windows and our sweaty bodies slipping and sliding around the bed. Then more sex in a cool, refreshing shower.
Damn, I thought, while I rushed home to pack. I hate missed or wasted opportunities. This was a big one.
While my secretary booked my hotel and flight, I packed and rushed to the airport.
Before leaving for the airport, I sent off a text to Rosalie, letting her know where I'd be. But I heard a tell-tale beep from her closet. There, sitting on a shelf, was my wife's phone. I laughed. She'd left it there more times than I could count, setting it down and changing purses and rushing out before picking it back up. Her sister and I never got along, so I didn't have her number. No time now to look it up, I'd figure out how to reach her later.
At the airport, I was able to switch to an earlier flight and rushed down to get boarded. I didn't need an earlier flight, but I hate airports and would rather be in Miami than on a plastic airport seat.
Called my secretary from the airport to alert the customer that I'd be there that afternoon, rather than in the morning. So, less than 7 hours from when the problem was reported that morning, I was knocking on the customer's door. Or his double doors. It wasn't a mansion. It was an estate. A gatekeeper, an actual employee/security man who job it was to man the gate and let people in and out! A keypad and camera weren't good enough for this toff.
I was expecting at least a butler in a penguin suit to answer the door, but instead it was W. Wilson Storm, the billionaire I recognized from the news stories about him. Surprised he deigned to open his own door, I was just about to introduce myself, when I heard a voice call out, "Are they finally here, love? We're going to have to hurry if we going to make the ballet."
Looking up, where the sweeping stairway met a landing that ran around the second floor like a balcony, was Rosalie, wrapped in a towel, drying her hair with a second towel. I knew that look; I'd seen it after many sweaty events.
I was numb, feeling nothing. Not anger, not even denial. Just numb. I thought, as depression set in, "How fucking cliché. What a fucking cliché."
