Knowing that it would damage our fifteen-year friendship so very badly was the only thing that stopped me. That and my phone rang. It was Chris. He was still lost. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** Balancing a store-bought chocolate cake and four pans of cookies, I followed Maggie, who was carrying the petit fours, into the side door of the old hotel. One of the kitchen staff smiled at us and thankfully held open the door. We followed the hand gestures, and half-mumbled instructions of his. After we found the large banquet hall door, I saw that I could have saved the fellow the time. I had known where to go. All I had needed to do was follow the sound of Cassandra’s voice. ‘Okay, put that over there, yeah next to the rack. No, closer to the guillotine.’ I stopped in my tracks, looked at Maggie and mouthed the word ‘Guillotine?’ She shook her head and held the door opened for me. Stepping through, I felt almost like I was stepping back through time. The room, despite a few more modern touches. The sheer lace of her bra was visible through the white satin of her blouse and she knew it. No young man has the professional restraint to counter millions of years of evolutionary conditioning, and this woman mercilessly preyed upon this genetic weakness. Her blouse, unbuttoned well beyond what could be considered professional, gaped open invitingly each time she leaned in to read his notes. And though he struggled to focus on work, his eyes were irresistibly drawn to her breasts. They strained to discern a nipple through the lace and his tongue subconsciously flicked out to whet his lips as he stared. She posed, holding this exposed position, pretending to ‘thoroughly’ review his efforts. His eyes would dart surreptitiously between her breasts and face, frightened of angering her but unable to resist. She would often lean back to ‘ponder’, eyes partially closed, hands massaging her neck and temples. His eyes would rivet to her chest, hypnotized by her mellifluously swaying.
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