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She laughed then, a genuine sound that broke the suffocating 'sexy' atmosphere. She reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned on a nature documentary about deep-sea squids.

'Forget it,' she said, pulling the duvet up. 'If it’s not happening, it’s not happening. But I’m not wasting a five-star room. Pass me a glass of that wine; let’s just see if these squids find love instead.'" She laughed then, a genuine sound that broke

Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle of wine breathing on the nightstand, I was a complete no-show. It’s a special kind of ego death when the spirit is willing but the flesh is basically a cooked noodle. She eventually sat back, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and looked at me—not with anger, but with a sort of clinical pity that felt even worse. 'If it’s not happening, it’s not happening