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?It was obviously a woman’s cry of pleasure. I froze for a moment, as I took off my coat silently. Then the idea occurred to me that maybe Randall was watching porn on his computer. I smiled as I thought it might be fun to catch him, and then make his fantasy come true.
?But as I headed back in the apartment, the moans got louder, and I heard Randall moaning as well.
?Could computer speakers make such realistic sounds?
?I reached the open doorway to the bedroom—my bedroom—and the image of naked and buxom Candy Poole atop equally naked Randall was like a slap in the face.
?They were going at it quite loudly, and I stood in shock as they both climaxed, right there, right in front of me as if I didn’t matter. During his orgasm, Randall turned to look at me, with that woman on top of him, and their anatomies still entwined. He glared at me as if to say, “See how easily I can replace you?”
?I left that night and never went back, except to pack. I spent the next few weeks in Westchester with my parents, but every night I would see Randall looking at me with that combination of loathing and dismissal.
? Both Randall and Candy would be at this upcoming convention. I would have to see that little airhead smirk at me, knowing she was bedding my husband, while I had been alone for over a year-and-a-half. And Randall would look down on me dismissively.
?But Gloria was right, I had agreed to it. I would have to be the grown-up and focus on meeting agents, doing panels, and not letting any of those people get under my skin.
?I sat down and began to write. If I didn’t have a life that made sense, I could at least
write about Sherlock Holmes, who could always make sense from the smallest clue.
?3. Printer's Errors
Mark Watkins
?Weeks later, showered, shaved, and dressed well, I arrived at the Hilton New York in Midtown Manhattan.
?Spring was in the air, adding delightful odors to the scent of the city. I thought about walking but opted for the short subway ride to 57th Street & Seventh Avenue. Then I strolled to the hotel on the Avenue of the Americas and 54th Street.
?Inside, I passed through the large lobby that had a “pseudo-rotunda” area in the center. The ceiling was designed in an enormous circle, decorated in gold leaf or gold paint, I couldn’t tell the difference.
?Toward the back of the hotel, I took an escalator to the mezzanine level to collect my name badge and schedule. Coming off the escalator, I glanced into the huge convention room known as the Rhinelander Gallery. It was filled with booth after booth, all separated by pipe and drape, and bore a sign at the door proclaiming it “The Marketplace.”
?I headed for the registration booths laid out along the hallway. There, I got on the line for attendees, where several people were behind the counter organizing badges and helping arrivals.
?A striking blonde approached in a long-sleeve, turtle-necked, red dress. It was fashionable while showing off every remarkable curve. Her hair was coiffed to frame her face, she was neatly made-up, and wore red lipstick that matched the ensemble.
?“And what’s your name, sir?” she asked in a breathy voice reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.
?“Mark Watkins,” I said, and her eyes grew large.
?“Really,” she replied, as if I had just made her day. She looked me over and then added, “The writer?”
?“Yes,” I said, and tried to look modest. Of course, in my jacket and open collar, I’d dressed for the role.
?“Wow!” she said with a throaty whisper. “I’m a big fan.”
?“Really?”
?“I want to be sure to catch your speech.” She rose, then glanced both ways to make sure no one was nearby. She leaned close to my ear and said, “I’m in room 1230. Maybe you could autograph something of mine later.”
?She leaned back and giggled wickedly.
?“Wha-what do you have in mind?” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
?“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she chuckled suggestively.
?“I’d be…um…happy to.”
?“I’ve got to find Mr. Kane,” she said. “He wanted to know the minute you arrived.”
