113 Mercer

The mahogany was a deep and profuse burgundy, almost black. The grain of the wood was chiseled and defined. Its polished finish was a testament to its strength and character. I was genuinely fascinated with my subject and studied it with all the intensity and precision of a forensic scientist. Yet my efforts went without reward, as my subject was unwilling to unguard its secret. Finally I raised my glass, and after another sip of cognac, deduced this wood was clearly of noble blood.

Satisfied, I turn my attention toward the large windows near the entrance. The cobblestoned streets glisten from the recent drizzle, like wet pearls in the Monterey sun. As another black sedan splashes up beside the curb, ridding itself of passengers, I sigh and look down at my watch... 7:43pm.

Without warning, the kind gentleman on the other side removes my glass and refills it with the warm burgundy elixir, which has provided excellent company this last hour and forty-three minutes. Again I observe the time and begin to wonder is any meeting, business or otherwise, worth such an arduous wait.

“Yes, I’ll have an Apple Martini...”

I hadn’t expected an answer so precipitously. For the voice that resonated through my inebriated state was so pristine, I thought God had stood beside me and ordered a drink.

As I turn to meet my maker, I realize that I have been deceived and instantly suspect my liquid companion of treachery. Yet, it was her arched back, peeking curiously through that black Prada gown, that had given her away. Though it was not alone in its betrayal. The long chestnut hair, which fell effortlessly along her shoulders like strands of silk, playfully curling against that bronzed skin that I now recall with such grief, proved to be a worthy accomplice. While I was quite certain that this was not God, I was convinced she deserved consideration for the position.

As the renouncing of my religion became increasingly inevitable, I prepared to make an offering to my new deity.

“Sir? There’s a call for you at the hostess’ desk.”



I turned to the bearer of the ill-timed news, somewhat perplexed. My initial impulse was to maim this unsympathetic intruder, though I could tell by his smile and gentle demeanor that he meant no harm. As he gestured the way, I slowly relinquished my leather perch and proceeded to follow him.

It was obvious that my 6 o’clock meeting had been canceled or postponed, which under the present circumstances, suited me fine. I reached the podium, lifted the receiver, and after several expressions of guilt had been offered, informed my associate that there was no need for hurry. I then gladly agreed that our affairs should commence, on a later date.

As I hand the receiver back to its rightful owner and make haste to reclaim my throne, I become strangely overtaken by a loss of air. I feel like an asthmatic who has the wind unjustly stolen from his lungs. The cause for my condition is later obvious when I survey the room.

The fact that my body reacted prior to my realization that the maiden was gone, remains a mystery.