are filled.”
“Yeah, but only the third and fourth floor suites. None of ours. And I haven’t seen a single person at the reception desk. The desk isn’t even staffed.”
“I’m sure someone’s keeping an eye on it, you can’t expect too many walk-ins at a place like this. Don’t worry!”
Donna traipsed off. At least someone’s enthused, Vera considered. She knew she was overreacting; The Carriage House, after all, was a new business venture, and all new business ventures started slow. Vera was used to a big rush every night; she’d simply have to adjust.
“At least what we’re getting leave good tips,” Donna happily reported on her way back. “Big wheels, too. That guy at table seven is the mayor!’’
Vera smiled. Whopee, she thought. The mayor of Waynesville, population four thousand. They’d also had a few town councilmen, the fire chief, and a podiatrist. Vera doubted that many more residents even existed in Waynesville who could afford to come here. What, tractor repairmen? Farmers?
And what of Feldspar? This was opening night, and he wasn’t to be found. In fact, she’d scarcely seen him at all during the past two weeks. “He’s busy with client promotion and the room reservations,” Kyle had told her, implying that the restaurant wasn’t important enough to warrant Feldspar’s time. Up yours, she’d gestured in thought. She hadn’t seen much of Kyle, either, so at least she had something to be grateful for.
Or so she thought.
She remembered her first night here, and Kyle’s overt sexual moves. Initially, she’d scoffed, had even been repelled by these presumptions. She’d expected him to persist.
But he hadn’t.
She knew she didn’t like Kyle, but for some reason that didn’t matter. Kyle had laid off, and as illogical as it seemed, this fact left her feeling flustered and even insulted. What’s the matter, Kyle. I’m not good enough for you to lust after anymore? Asshole. Not that she’d ever let him lay a hand on her, she felt irked that he was playing hard to get. She could think of no other reason for his lack of persistence. But, Grow up, Vera, she thought now. Women were notorious for double standards, but she tried not to follow suit. Yeah, Kyle, you’re an asshole for putting the make on me, and now you’re an asshole for not keeping it up. It made sense to her.
She was also, to herself, embarrassed, but not for any reason that anyone could know.
The hands, she thought now. Suddenly the dining room blurred in her eyes. Yes, the hands, the fantasy. I must be more sex-starved than I think. Every night was the same. After work, she’d retire to her room, have a short Grand Marnier or two, take a hot bubble bath, and go to bed. And in bed, as sleep encroached, the fantasy would return. In her mind, the hands would lay her out, on her belly, and begin their slow, meticulous caress. Eventually, the image would wind her up so intensely that she’d further the fantasy in her mind, to intercourse with Kyle, on her hands and knees. It infuriated her. Vera wasn’t a dreamer, she was a realist. She had no use for fantasies, especially masturbatory ones. Yet the more determined she became to resist it, the fantasy also came to her. Hot, tactile, erotic. Every night.
And every night, afterward, she fell into a sated sleep and she dreamed.…
Goddamn! What is wrong with you! She gritted her teeth and blinked hard; the recollections vanished. I’m standing at the hostess section of my restaurant, on opening night, and all I can think about are dirty dreams.
