A still small voice calls my name.

I turn from the elevator, my finger still on the button, staring across the lobby. She is there, in an armchair, curled and tiny, barely visible, quite delectable, very wanted.

I call her name back, watch the rest of her head appear around the edge of the chair, her face looking happy and slightly nervous at the same time. I'm not sure nervous about what, though admittedly the situation is a little odd.

I'd called her after the conference got out, as she'd requested, to arrange for dinner. Her boyfriend, sounding annoyed, had answered the phone, promised to tell her, clearly hadn't, as I'd eaten alone. Ah the days before cell phones.

She gestures at me to come over, and I gesture for her to join me instead. There is an awkward silence before she smiles, stands, and walks toward me, arriving in front of me just as the elevator opens behind me.

Another awkward silence ensues. Do I get on, and if I get on, does she follow?

I do. She does. We still have the elevator ride, the elevator departure, the walk down the hall, and the unlocking of the room door to get through.

We are still not touching. Or talking. But we are looking. It has been a long time and I want to take her all in, to remember her fully and leisurely, to have her and hold her firmly in my mind, all four-foot-ten of her. Watching her, remembering her, encoding her I realize with a shock and a thrill that she is doing the same with me, scanning me from head to foot, all six-foot-one-and-a-half of me.

I'd always thought of myself as one of her admirers, and I got the impression several times that she thought of me that way too, even though she's officially my wife's friend.

All in all an awkward, undefined situation. But a strong attraction can cut through a morass of indecision like an airplane cutting through the clouds.

I open the door and she steps in, kicks her shoes off, throws her batik jacket over the nearest chair and lays down on my bed as stretched out as she can be, which isn't very much.

It's kind of hard not to take her action as an invitation and I am almost hard from the thought of it. I proceed to do what I was going to do anyway, which is walk to the closet and take my shirt off while staring into the closet with my back to her, looking for something more suitable, having no idea what we're doing or where we're going or what "more suitable" might mean, knowing full well that she's watching.

Part of me wants to know how she's reacting, to turn and look at her on my bed. The rest of me is happy with the image in my head, the image in which she's already stripped off the rest of her clothes and is playing with herself as she watches me.

I can't take it anymore. I turn to look. She's not naked. She's not playing with herself, but she's propped up on one elbow, her incredibly cute head resting on her hand, her blond hair flowing down to the bed and her blouse unbuttoned.

Her blouse unbuttoned.

Her blouse... unbuttoned.

I stare.

She stares back. Raises an eyebrow at me.

Which is my usual next move. I am left without moves.

Except this one: the quick two steps to the bed, the kneeling on the floor, the staring into her eyes.

She holds my gaze.

We lean toward each other and our lips meet, soft warm, pliant, promising. We are lost in each other for a minute until she grabs my head, pulls me away, just a little, and stares again. "Thank you," she whispers, "I needed that. Now let's go get some more food. I'm starving."