It has been said that the sex you have after going to a funeral is always the best sex. Maybe because we lose our feeling of immortality, maybe a desire to be wanted, to be held. I don't know.
I had left an appointment Tuesday afternoon, and was headed back to my hotel to get some work done on another project, when my rental car just stopped. I was fortunate to have coasted off the edge of the road and out of the traffic, but it was not going any further. I have two mid-1950s Chevy street rods back home, which I rebuilt on my own. However, getting a 2016 Dodge Challenger running again was beyond my capabilities - way too much computer stuff in these cars. I called the rental car company, explained the problem and was told they would have another car at my hotel later in the day. Only about a mile from my hotel, I grabbed my briefcase and started walking.
I had only walked a few feet from my car when a nice, older Mercedes coupe went by, then stopped and backed up. Asking if I needed a ride, I told her I was headed to the Hilton about a mile up the street, and would appreciate a ride there.
"Please, get it" she said.
Within a few minutes we were in front of the Hilton, and thanked her for the ride, starting to get out of the car.
"Please wait" she said. Then "would you consider having a drink with me?"
By now I had realized that she was upset, so I agreed. She got out, waving a parking valet over to take the car.
Finding a table in the lounge, which was pretty much deserted in the middle of the afternoon, she ordered a glass of wine and I ordered my usual - a Diet Coke.
Taking off her sunglasses in the darkened lounge, it was obvious that she had been crying, as she dabbed at her eyes and nose. Reaching out her hand, she said "hello, I'm Emma."
"Hello Emma, I'm Matt" I said as I shook her hand.
There was an awkward silence while we waited for our drinks. After a small sip of her wine, Emma looked at me and said "Matt, how old are you?"
"Twenty eight" I replied.
"I will be 48 tomorrow. And even harder to believe is that I just came from the funeral of my childhood friend Ellen. She was 48 also."
"I'm sorry to hear that" is all I could think of to say.
She began chatting about all the things they had done growing up, school, weddings and the like. Just last year they had vacationed together in the Caribbean.
"And now she is gone."
Emma was wearing a wedding ring, and I asked if her husband was not at the funeral with her. Somewhat bitterly, she replied "no, he was too busy to show up - there was a ball game he didn't want to miss." I did not ask any more questions about that situation.
As Emma continued to talk, I looked at her more closely. She certainly did not have the face of most 48 year old ladies. Her hair was blonde, hanging straight, down past her shoulders. Freckles were sprinkled across her nose. From what I could tell, she was very small and petite. Not surprisingly, I guess, she was dressed in black - a black jacket and skirt, black blouse, black hose and black shoes.
She had another drink while I nursed my Diet Coke, and she continued to reminisce about her friend.
Looking at her watch, she asked "Matt, could I use your room to freshen up? I don't want to go home looking like this."
I gave her the key card and room number, and told her I would wait in the lounge for her to return.