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Keith had studied Kisa there in his London hotel’s lobby as they’d toasted his good fortune to be fully booked up back in New York and she’d sipped her drink. She had a marvelously girlish smile that thoroughly disarmed. They’d found themselves talking shop. Like he, she’d done a few international tours herself.

She enjoyed it, though, hopping around the globe, touching down here and there for extended periods of time. It even forced her to learn French, Italian and German. “Hell,” he’d commented, “I call myself doing good to speak decent Americanese.”

“You got that right,” she’d said, highly amused, “’cause you sure can’t call it English.” She then pointed out that, of all the world’s languages, it was indeed the hardest to learn due to all the different rules of grammar, not to mention there being so many words spelled two and three different ways, each changing the meaning completely.

He’d never thought about that, but yeah, she had a point. And felt pretty proud of himself for knowing a complicated language — never mind that it’d been taught to him since birth. The delight with such actually unremarkable prowess clued him in that he probably ought to slow down on ordering rounds.

They chatted on, slipping in a good deal of flirting, heating each other up until closing time. At which point they’d got so pleasantly lit that the bartender was ready to cut them off anyway. He’d asked, “Either of you driving, mate? I’ll gladly call for a car.”

“Not me,” said Keith.

“Oh, no,” Kisa said. “Thanks just the same.”

She’d signed for their drinks. Then they got themselves across the lobby floor, into the elevator, and up to her room. At the door, Kisa gave him one more dripping look, slid her arms around his waist, shoved her hips against his and pulled him in.

She’d motioned him over to the sofa, kicked off her shoes, made them a fresh round, put some music on. Sade. Presently joining him, she planted a sloppy kiss on Keith’s lips, sat up and paused. Then she promptly passed out. Falling face down in his lap. He laughed, slid out from under her, fished around in her closet, came back with a blanket and put it over her. Then went to his room.

Next morning, before heading over to the theater, he’d rang her room, left a message. But he never met Kisa’s eyes again as long he was in England. Keith did, though, catch sight of her on occasion, generally from a distance and usually walking the other way. A couple of times he’d’ve sworn her caught her deliberately looking away.

By the next time he saw her, back in the states, he’d fallen in love with Lesli. His and Kisa’s paths occasionally crossed, though, because it turned out she wasn’t just a part-time receptionist at the studio. In fact, she owned half of it and was usually around, hands-on fashion.

It occurred to him they’d never spoken of that night in London. Not so much as mentioned it. He figured it was a moment she’d rather forget. She still looked fabulous. Clearly she was still interested. Or interested again. Whichever. He especially liked that she’d asked him to call her at home, which he had done. Yep, now he and lady were going to have themselves a little lunch. And, who knows, maybe later a little something else.

Next week: Keith learns what really happened that night in Kisa’s room.

 

Next week: Keith learns what really happened that night in Kisa’s room.

Dwight Hobbes welcomes reader responses to P.O. Box 50357, Mpls., 55403. 

 

To see more stories by Dwight Hobbes stories click HERE

 

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