Dessert at Last Call - Part 1

Sapphira & Jenny Shortly after midnight, in a luxury hotel room fourteen floors above a city that glittered with promises it had no intention of keeping, Sapphira stood beside the bed of a traveling businessman who had come searching for danger, excitement, and a story he could exaggerate when he returned home, although all he would remember in the morning was inviting a pale and beautiful stranger upstairs, feeling strangely calm when she touched his face, and then waking fully dressed beneath the blankets with a tender mark near his collar and no clear memory of how the night had ended. Sapphira wiped the final trace of blood from the corner of her mouth, adjusted the collar of her black satin blouse, and looked down at the sleeping man with mild satisfaction rather than affection, because men were supper, occasionally amusing supper and often irritating supper, but never anything she wished to keep after she had taken what she needed. “Pleasant dreams,” she murmured, placing his room key beside the lamp, “and the next time you decide to explore the seedy side of a strange city, perhaps begin with a museum.” She left him snoring gently and entered the corridor, where the thick carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, while another hunger, warmer and infinitely more troublesome than the first, began awakening beneath her ribs. Feeding took care of survival, but afterward came the craving she privately called dessert, which could not be satisfied with blood, flattery, or frightened obedience, because dessert meant a woman’s laughter close to her ear, a hand resting trustingly against her chest, a kiss freely offered, and perhaps, if the night was unusually kind, someone willing to remain until morning. The hotel bar seemed the most convenient place to begin, although Sapphira’s optimism faded the moment she entered and found nothing but polished brass, amber lighting, tired bartenders, and half a dozen businessmen drinking as though tomorrow’s meetings were punishments they intended to survive through expensive whiskey. She selected a corner table, ordered a glass of red wine she would never touch, and spent several dull minutes watching men discuss money, golf, and themselves, until one of them finally noticed her and approached with the confident wobble of a man who had mistaken intoxication for charm. “You look lonely,” he said, leaning one hand on her table. “I am alone,” Sapphira replied, “which is not the same thing.” He laughed too loudly, lowered himself into the chair across from her without permission, and said, “A woman like you should not be sitting here by herself.” “A man like you should not be sitting here at all.” “That is cold.” “So am I.” He grinned, either missing or ignoring the warning, and reached across the table as though he intended to touch her hand, which was when Sapphira leaned forward, allowed her eyes to darken into their natural crimson, and whispered something into his ear so quietly that even the bartender could not hear it. Whatever she told him erased the alcohol from his face, because he stood so abruptly that he nearly overturned the chair, muttered an apology to no one in particular, and hurried from the bar with his jacket still hanging over one arm. Sapphira had just begun considering whether dessert might have to wait until another evening when the door opened and a woman entered wearing white sneakers, fitted jeans, a soft gray sweater, and the expression of someone who had spent the entire day being polite to people she did not particularly like. She was perhaps twenty-eight, with chestnut hair gathered into a loose ponytail, tired blue eyes, and a beauty that seemed entirely accidental, as though she had never learned how often strangers turned to look at her. The woman ordered a gin and tonic, settled onto a stool near the end of the bar, and immediately attracted the attention of another businessman, who straightened his tie and began preparing the sort of introduction that had disappointed women for centuries. Sapphira reached the empty stool first. “Is this seat taken?” she asked. The woman looked at her, then glanced toward the businessman hovering several feet away, and said, “No, but I should probably warn you that I am not interested.” Sapphira sat down anyway, although she left a courteous distance between them. “That sounded rehearsed.” “It is rehearsed, because men in hotel bars tend to believe a woman sitting alone is either waiting to be rescued or waiting to make a mistake.” “And which are you doing?” “Neither, because I wanted one quiet drink before going upstairs, putting on terrible hotel television, and sleeping until my family begins tormenting me tomorrow morning.” Sapphira smiled faintly. “Then I will not interrupt your quiet drink.” She rose as though preparing to leave, and the woman, who had expected argument, flirtation, or wounded pride, looked suddenly uncertain. “That is all?” “You said you were not interested, and unlike the gentlemen presently pretending not to watch us, I listened.” Sapphira turned away, but before she had taken two steps, the woman called after her. “Wait, please, because I was rude, and you were actually being polite.” Sapphira looked back over her shoulder. “Polite people rarely have to announce that they are not interested before learning someone’s name.” “Hotel bars have made me defensive.” “Then perhaps hotel bars owe me an apology.” The woman laughed despite herself, and Sapphira returned to the stool. “My name is Jennifer,” she said, offering her hand, “although everybody calls me Jenny.” “Sapphira.” “That cannot possibly be your real name.” “It has been my name longer than this hotel has been standing.” Jenny studied her, unable to decide whether the answer was a joke, and finally smiled. “You are strange.” “You say that as though it disappoints you.” “It might be the first interesting thing that has happened since I arrived.” Their conversation began cautiously, with Jenny explaining that she had driven in from Columbus for her grandmother’s eightieth birthday, that the celebration would occupy most of the following day, and that she was counting the hours until she could return home to her fiancé, Mark, whom she was scheduled to marry in less than five weeks. “You do not sound excited,” Sapphira observed. “I am excited about being married, but weddings are exhausting, because everyone wants an opinion about flowers, seating charts, dresses, food, music, and whether my life will be ruined if the napkins are folded incorrectly.” “And Mark?” “What about him?” “Does he exhaust you?” Jenny gave her a warning look, although the question had landed more deeply than she wanted to admit. “He is kind, dependable, successful, and completely certain about everything.” “You listed his virtues as though you were reading them from a brochure.” “That is unfair.” “It was merely an observation.” Jenny sipped her drink, then said, “Mark is a good man, and good men are not exactly overflowing from the gutters.” Sapphira turned toward her with an expression that was both amused and unexpectedly gentle. “Good is not the same as right, Jenny.” “You have known me for twenty minutes.” “I have listened to you for twenty minutes, which may be more than some people accomplish in twenty years.” That answer quieted Jenny, and for the next hour Sapphira did exactly what made her irresistible, because she asked questions and waited for honest answers, noticed when Jenny became uncomfortable and changed the subject without embarrassing her, remembered small details, made her laugh with dry remarks about the businessmen circling the bar like overdressed sharks, and gradually drew from her the admission that Mark had chosen their apartment, planned their honeymoon, encouraged her to leave her job after the wedding, and had recently begun speaking about children as though Jenny’s agreement were a detail that would eventually arrange itself. “You make him sound terrible,” Jenny said. “I have said almost nothing about him.” “You have a very judgmental silence.” “My silence is innocent, although your answers appear to be accusing him.” Jenny shook her head and laughed nervously. “You are extremely dangerous.” “You have no idea.” At last call, the bartender placed the bill beside Jenny’s empty glass, and Sapphira stood. “I should let you sleep before your grandmother’s celebration.” “That is probably wise.” “It is rarely wise to spend too much time with a stranger.” Jenny looked at her hands, then back at Sapphira. “I told you that I am not attracted to women.” “I remember.” “And I am engaged.” “You have mentioned it often enough that I suspect you are reminding yourself rather than me.” Jenny inhaled sharply, but before she could reply, Sapphira placed two cool fingers lightly against the inside of her wrist, where her pulse immediately quickened. “You should go upstairs,” Sapphira said softly, “before you discover that the life you have carefully chosen does not make you feel half as alive as a woman you met beside a bowl of stale hotel peanuts.” Jenny stared at her, shocked by the audacity of the remark, angered by its truth, and so suddenly excited that she felt heat climb from her chest into her face. Sapphira released her wrist and stepped away. “Goodnight, Jenny.” Jenny watched her walk toward the door, while every sensible thought inside her demanded silence, restraint, and immediate retreat, but instead she heard herself say, “My room is on the ninth floor.” Sapphira turned slowly. “Is that an invitation?” “It is probably a catastrophic lapse in judgment.” “I can work with that.” Inside the elevator, Jenny stood rigidly beside her, staring at the glowing numbers above the doors while panic arrived in delayed waves. “I cannot do this,” she whispered. “Then we will stop.” “I am getting married.” “I know.” “I have never even kissed a woman.” “I know that too.” Jenny turned toward her. “You are not supposed to be calm.” “One of us should be.” The elevator reached the sixth floor, and Jenny moved suddenly as though she intended to press the button for the lobby, but Sapphira caught her hand, not tightly enough to imprison her, only firmly enough to make her pause. “Tell me to release you,” Sapphira said. Jenny opened her mouth, but no words came. Sapphira leaned closer, giving her every opportunity to move away, and kissed her with a tenderness so patient that Jenny’s fear shattered almost instantly, replaced by a rush of desire that left her gripping the front of Sapphira’s blouse while the elevator continued climbing. When the doors opened on the ninth floor, Jenny was already pulling her into the corridor. They barely made it inside Jenny’s room before she kissed Sapphira again, this time with all the urgency she had spent years disguising as good judgment, and there was scarcely a moment for talking after that, because Sapphira made her feel desired without making her feel conquered, cherished without making her feel fragile, and understood in ways that frightened her more than any supernatural secret could have done. Jenny awoke late the following morning in a confusion of tangled sheets, sore muscles, scattered clothing, and sunlight pouring through curtains she did not remember opening, while Sapphira was gone. A single crimson rose rested on the pillow beside her, together with a folded card written in elegant black ink. “You were not a mistake, Jenny, although tonight you may decide whether I was only one night.” For the rest of the day, Jenny moved through her grandmother’s celebration like an actress who had forgotten the plot, smiling at cousins whose names she barely heard, accepting slices of cake she did not taste, and touching her lips whenever no one was watching. Mark called shortly after lunch, beginning one of the long conversations she usually endured with practiced affection, but after seven minutes of listening to him complain about a florist, she interrupted him. “I am not feeling well, so can we talk tomorrow?” “You sound distracted.” “I am tired.” “Did you drink last night?” “One drink.” “With whom?” Jenny looked across the crowded room and saw relatives laughing beneath gold balloons. “Someone I met at the hotel.” There was a pause. “What someone?” “I have to go, Mark.” She ended the call before he could answer, left the party two hours early, and returned to the hotel, where she showered, curled her hair, applied makeup with trembling hands, and changed into a black dress she had brought for dinner but had not intended to wear until the following night. At eight o’clock she sat at the bar. At ten she ordered a second drink. At midnight the bartender announced last call, and Jenny’s excitement had curdled into humiliation, because she had spent hours glancing toward the entrance, imagining Sapphira arriving with that knowing smile, only to realize that no meeting had actually been arranged and that she might have misunderstood the note entirely. She returned to her room, ignored another call from Mark, removed her heels, and sat on the edge of the bed feeling lonelier than she had felt before meeting Sapphira, because now she knew precisely what she had been missing. The knock came just after one.