Bridget’s fantasies always seemed to go a little something like this: her, walking into a bar; him, already seated across the room. She would order a jack and coke from the unimpressive bartender and sit within eyesight of him. It would take him until he’d nearly finished his whiskey to stand up and approach her. But he never spoke to her, not once. Instead, he would lock his gaze on her, broken only as he passed her by. She never looked over her shoulder right away; doing so would make her seem desperate. No; in her fantasies, she always waited three minutes before quickly swallowing the remainder of her drink and following him to the elevator.
They would ride the elevator in silence, exiting—always—on the thirteenth floor. Usually she followed him, but this time, it was his footsteps she heard behind her. She swiped her key card, left the door open behind her. Barely inside the room, his mouth would find hers. After that, well, anything was possible.