On with life

Heather has a really nice hotel room. It’s a one-room suite with a king bed and a couch, among other things. I saw it briefly earlier today when I dropped off my weekend bag, but I didn’t really take the time to look at it.

Still, it doesn’t hold my attention for more than a moment or two—not when Heather’s with me. “Anything in particular you want to do, love?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she says, grinning. “Sit down a minute”—she waves me to the sofa with a sweep of her arm—“I need to do something in the washroom.” She gives me a long, smoldering kiss and vanishes through the door. I sit down on the couch, somewhat bemused, and return to looking around at the room. It’s been a long and draining few hours, so my mind unfocuses pretty quickly.

Suddenly music cuts through my reverie; when I pull my thoughts together, I recognize Mitch Grassi’s high, pure tenor. I can’t place the vocal riff, though I should know it. I hear Scott Hoying and Kevin Olusola come in—and then the washroom door opens and Heather struts out on black stilettos wearing something filmy in black and red. She looks me in the eyes, puts her hands on her hips, and comes in in perfect unison with Kirstie Maldonado: “It’s ten past two, still up thinking of you . . .”