Once I get back to the hotel in the evening, I decide to make myself do a sit for thirty minutes just to ground myself in that routine.

I turn on the TV to CNN. I figure since I’ve already read the paper today, I might as well continue the news-junkie vibe. Since I’ve been under a media blackout for so many months, I have a lot of catching up to do.

I feel antsy once time is up. As much as I like this hotel room with its little kitchenette and lounge area, there is only so much of these walls I’m willing to put up with. I need to get out of the room, walk around the hotel a bit, maybe even walk downtown again. I don’t want to become a hermit already on my first day out, but who could blame me for enjoying the peace and quiet and solitude I’ve got here? Well, I’m sure my dad could find something wrong with it, but he’s not here, so who cares what he might or might not say?

No one. Exactly. And certainly not me.

I make sure I have my room key and slide into my back pocket, slide on my flip-flops, and open the door. I look side to side, down each end of the hallway, and see no one. I hear an explosion from someone’s TV. Probably some dumb action-adventure movie on TNT, like Terminator or Lethal Weapon, or any one of their equally stupid sequels. I will say one thing for George, for my father. He has good taste in movies, and did teach me to be a movie snob. There’s no way we would’ve ever watched any of those at home.

I try to tense my feet enough so that my flip-flops don’t make that annoying slapping sound, but rather make a muffled “chock” sound. Even though the explosions can be heard down the hall, I don’t want to be slap-slap-slapping by someone’s door and irritating them. I want to be a good neighbor, for however long I’m here.

Like people actually live here, sheesh. They’re just here for the weekend, most likely, and if they aren’t, they’re probably business travelers, and either way, they won’t be extended guests, like you might be. You’re not planning on putting down roots here or anything. If I had to deal with bombs, they could deal with flip-flops.

Rather than take the elevator, I decide to slap-slap-slap my way down the stairwell. May as well get a bit of exercise while I’m at it, because Sandy said that taking the stairs is good for you, it increases your heart rate and metabolism, just like a Stairmaster, and since that’s where the whole idea for the Stairmaster comes from, anyway, it’s a no-brainer.

My room’s on the fourth floor, the top floor. The first floor has a lounge, a restaurant, a bar, and the pool and Jacuzzi, plus the gym. The second floor has a nice conference hall, or so Sandy told me, as I’d be using it for something. The rest of the second floor and top two floors were rooms.

I slap-jog my way downstairs past the third floor and spiral down the stairwell until I reach the second floor. For some reason, I become fixated on the conference room, and I just have to see it. It’s probably generic and lame and smells like the ghosts of fruit punch and sausage that were left out too long from the last conference, but what the heck. It beats sitting around my room right now.

The door handle makes it “cha-chunk” noise as I smack my hands against it to push the door open. I nearly trip as I moved from the concrete of the stairwell to the hallway carpet. Apparently, flip-flop soles aren’t so good for traction, and how much you want to bet that Mom paid thirty dollars for these, since they’re American Eagle? At least she cared enough to send the very best.

The carpet is different from what’s upstairs on the fourth floor. There, it’s a faded blue in the middle, navy blue on the edges of the hallway where the foot traffic hasn’t worn it out, with little white dots, like pin points of light. Yellowed light, soiled light, in the middle, but on the edges, I can see their brightness, what they used to be. I notice the edges. I stick to the edges, usually. I like the edges. Here, though, the carpet is burgundy and gold, rich and fancy looking. The background is burgundy, deep like a Merlot, maybe a Shiraz (Dad’s wine training is coming in handy for something), and it’s topped with gold ovals. The effect is really rather nice. It’s elegant, opulent.

If I thought I could check out the conference room by myself and be alone, I was wrong. Quite a crowd gathered, all dressed to the nines in suits and formal dresses. Up ‘dos galore, enough to make Mom swoon with pleasure. Diamonds and pearls and sapphires all over the women’s throats, ears, fingers, and wrists. The party looked as fancy and elegant as the carpet, It’s like I entered a totally new world.

There are beautiful padded benches and chairs to my right, slightly away from the action. I duck over and sit in one of the plush burgundy-and-gold chairs that circle a small mahogany table, with a crystal vase full of bright, happy Gerber daisies. I love Gerberas. They’re in-your-face Crayola flowers. They simply make me smile, even on my most pissy teenage boy days. I breathe in, and smell the faint sweetness, like sugar in the air.

It must be a wedding reception or something. People are coming in with gifts wrapped in white paper, tied with silver bows. Classic wedding wrapping paper action. The atmosphere is pretty subdued, and the vibe they’re giving off is one of quiet expectation. The bride and groom and bridal party haven’t arrived yet. That’s good. I don’t feel like I’m intruding quite so much.

A couple catches my eye. They’re hanging back from the others a bit. She’s wearing a strapless light green silk dress with the image of an iris seemingly hand painted on. I could tell it was silk from the way it flowed around her as she moved, every turn and shift inspiring a gentle wave to wash along the shoreline of her body. The iris has to be hand painted; even from where I sit, it looks original with brushstrokes and lines a machine could never produce. It has soul, it has life. Her hair is light blonde like Mom’s, and swept into a simple chignon. Diamonds twinkle in her ears and around her neck. I can’t see her hands, but I’m sure she has a huge rock on her wedding ring. Tanned skin, but not obviously tanning booth created. Calves Mom would hate her for. Stuart Weitzman shoes. This woman spells c-l-a-s-s.

The man wears a fitted grey pinstriped suit, with a light purple shirt and a purple and grey tie. If the whole ensemble wasn’t Ralph Lauren, I’d be surprised. Maybe Calvin Klein, but my money’s on RL’s Purple label. His shoes are Johnston and Murphy if they’re anything else. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut short in a Caesar style. That cut never goes out of style for guys. He’s tanned, too, almost the same color as his wife.

He wraps his arm around her waist and she turns away just slightly before leaning into him, like the most natural place for her to fit in the world is right there against him in that position. He smells her neck; she must have dabbed perfume there, maybe Chanel No. 5. He kisses that part of her neck, then kisses her earlobe before nibbling it just a bit. She shakes slightly, giggling like the nibble tickles. She tilts her head a bit more to the side, inviting him to kiss her neck again. He does. She melts. She visibly melts. He wraps his arm around her tighter and starts swaying to whatever music he hears in his head, to whatever music their bodies create, to whatever music their love plays. A symphony. She releases into him more, and lets him sway her, lets him take the lead, lets him move her.

No one else exists. No one else matters. They move and they sway. Like waves. Like silk. Like silken waves. Like wedded perfection. Like wedded bliss.

Like nothing I had ever seen before.