Marty couldn’t believe that he was just propositioned by this beautiful blond model standing in front of him. Olga was six foot four, without her heals, six foot whatever with them, and she had a body that would have made Michelangelo forget all about carving David. Yet here she was hitting on little old Marty.
“Are you sure you haven’t been drinking too much?” asked Marty in his head, but he didn’t have the nerve to ask it out loud. Instead he just sort of shrugged his shoulders and faintly gestured with his rum and coke, hold the rum.
Olga gave him a pouty look. Damn, that look had to be trademarked by some company. “So what do you say? We can talk more in my room,” she said.
Marty’s left thumb drifted to where his wedding band had been. It had been over a year, and yet… “Sorry, not tonight. I’ve got to get ready for a meeting in the morning. Maybe tomorrow?” he asked.
Olga let the pout evaporate and replaced it with a heaping helping of I can’t believe you just did that. Without saying a word she left the reception and headed off into the bowels of the hotel, alone.
Marty drifted out into the night. The glare of the manmade neon from the strip hid the heavens above, but still Marty looked up and stared into the emptiness which matched what he felt inside. “I love you Brenda,” he said before going back inside. He did have a meeting in the morning after all.