He’s not a particularly good-looking man. He’s starting to lose his hair, his middle is slightly thickened, he stands like he’s been beaten several times, maybe even too many times. He’s got big, thick hands, sad eyes and a drooping mouth. But he’s got money - lots of it - and power.
Standing in the ante-room with his second Scotch of the evening, he’s anxious to meet his date for the night. She’s young, hopeful, beautiful and slim. She does have curves, however, in all the right places. An ample chest, large enough to suffocate a man, generous hips that can cradle a grown boy, and shapely thighs that seem like columns holding the heavens.
The evening progressed well, he thought. She found him amusing, engaging and intelligent. She enjoyed the bottles of wine they’ve ordered. He liked how she touched his arm when she wanted to ask a question or make a point. Her legs accidentally brushed against his several times during dinner, probably because of the cramped table. He was surprised then, when she leaned to whisper in his ear, “Take me to your bed, honey.”
This lonely man, sad man - hiding behind the trappings of material success - hasn’t felt this invigorated in a long time. The excitement, the danger, the promise of her warmth and youth were enough to send him skittering across his own self-control. Another cocktail to calm the nerves and a bottle of champagne to seduce the girl. Tonight, he will momentarily live in a dream purchased with his hopes and remaining innocence, spent on a beauty incapable of appreciating or reciprocating his sentiments.