He was an older man, armed with a laptop and an ill-fitting suit. She was his junior, toting a suitcase and a pair of designer heels.
He was seated in the lobby, hacking away at emails and trying to overcome his writer’s block, when she entered, full of confidence, wearing a yellow pencil skirt and a blue blouse, her head up, her gait quick.
He would not have noticed her had he not have cocked his head back to bemoan his lack of inspiration; but, he did and he saw her. She checked in and vanished around the corner.
He saw her again at breakfast, when she came down to grab a bite. She had changed her heels for flats, the pencil skirt for something red and flowy.
There was a newlywed couple sitting at the table between them. When they got up, the man not-so-casually scooted closer to her. They talked for a bit. She got up to take a Segway tour. He returned to his novel.
She did not return until evening. He feared he might not see her again. He wrote himself into exhaustion as the words began flowing through him as if in full depth and color.
He retreated to the reading area with a glass of wine. She entered, this time wearing tan jeans and no shoes.
She picked out a book on American history and started reading. He asked her about it. They talked for a while. He offered her a glass of wine. She said yes.
They returned to the lobby and sat and drank and talked and watched people go by. He put his arm around her shoulder.