+TYPED OUT-

+NOT AGAIN-

The lift doors opened on the obscure third floor and its black velvet damask pattern walls. Monday couldn't help but let her fingers glide along the walls as Kenneth, and she walked to the door of the relatively long corridor lit by mural chandeliers.

A great silence reigned since Kenneth's declaration.

"I sort of like you."

What was it supposed to mean?

One either did or didn't, was an in-between possible?

Kenneth opened the door to the eighth wonder of all bedrooms.

Monday bit her lips before they parted to lay agape in stupefaction. No description or adjectives of what she saw would do the bedroom justice. She took off her boots. Her feet sank the depth of the soft burgundy carpet as thick tall fescue grass.

The walls harbored another floral pattern in deep red with a contrast of teal and sapphire in the background. Monday could not distinguish whether it was western or baroque. Again velvet cloaked the details on the walls, the geneose chair, bed rest, and curtains. Gold curves and swirls ornamented every piece of furniture, including the glided frames of the artwork. The bed laid majestic in authentic Rococo style with its lavish silk bedding and mattress so thick that the Princess pea would have been puree at sunrise if someone stashed it under the bed.

Again Kenneth observed Monday and the way her fingers touched every surface. She silently registered the sensation for another moment where she counted faithfully recreating them for her readers.

Even in a moment of private leisure, the woman thought of her works. Where most men would sermon her for her lack of attention, Kenneth let Monday do. A creatives' mind is never at rest, and the man knew it better than anyone else. Monday resembled him in that sense. The tuna sandwich writer lived and breathed what she wrote. Though she always added a comical note, as Lisbeth told him, her writing held more meaning than the image associated with her. One could read her stories on the surface and only see the glitz of women meeting a Prince Charming or see the subjects of debate.

Right then, Kenneth was in no rush. They had plenty of time for what he had in mind. He reminded himself to thank Rob, who gave him a tip on the address. Yes, the man wished to impress her, and only Rob, the young Don Juan, could unearth a treasure such as La Maison Souget. Though an adept of minimalism, Kenneth had to admit the hotel knocked one's sight out.

Mondays' eyes stopped on the champagne's ice bucket, the two glasses, and the basket of strawberries, cherry, and other berries set by the window.

She turned to give Kenneth a suspicious glare.

He lifted his hand to a halt, "they're complimentary. It's a room for two."

"Admit it; you had sex in mind and planned this."

From the woman's expression, one knew that even she didn't expect to let out her statement.

"No, I planned the dinner. The rest is up to your free will. I wouldn't pretend not to be glad if something happened," a cocky smile appeared on Kenneths' face. The eventuality of a raunchy night was on the back burner of his thoughts.

Their first night together was her favorite fantasy. The man replayed the scenes without moderation in his inner peep show.

"How can you openly admit something like that? Do you really think I'm going to sleep with you now?"  Monday asked.

"My chances should be pretty high. Honesty is an act our minds system of reward appreciates. Yours must be distributing brownie points right now." 

The man's confidence was something else. He didn't even make an effort to dissimilate his intentions. Monday could not tell whether the man thought she was too simple-minded to understand an innuendo.

"You're despicable," Monday said and sneered.

"I'm only telling the truth."

"Yeah, and it's friggin' annoying."

"I know," said Kenneth. He approached, swept the braids away from her face, and grasped her waist. He then slightly tilted his head to kiss her, but Monday turned her head away, "it means nothing."

The man redirected her face to his, "I hope so."

Again the man assured her mindsets' clock was on time by reminding her with his response there was nothing behind anything they did; all was merely carnal.

Kenneth was that man Monday often depicted in her books. The one to avoid by all means, yet the type who always managed to get under one's skin. The only way to counter was to reduce and classify any act of attention as banal.

Monday trusted her denial mechanism to do its duty. She thought if she protested verbally, she could convince herself of her word's veracity. She had to do so; it was primordial. Otherwise, her heart would begin to beat for him and conspire. Her delusion would crush her expectations. Greed would invade her, and she would become needy for something the man would never give. The woman refused, still as he kissed her, letting his hands slide to her buttocks; Monday wondered how long she could resist.

Kenneth pulled away. If she wanted to leave, it was then. He forced no one. He wanted her then, but he had no clue of the following days' desires. Thus, Monday was well advised.

"I told you nothing lives up to fiction," Monday repeated himself, but she wished for the man to know he was no Don.

She challenged him, and the man accepted. The night was still young, and Kenneth had the firm intention to make the woman yield and admit it was better to live in the reality of his touch.