“No.  Nobody’s waiting.”  She unlocked the minibar, peered inside and said to the booze bottles: “You don’t wear a ring.”

“Don’t like anything on my fingers...I’m a cellist,” Evan said, as he thought: She has an incredible body and she’s wearing a dress so I’ll notice.  The last time his wife wore a dress, it was for a school function––their seven-year-old daughter’s music recital––Evan couldn’t remember the last time his wife wore a dress just for him.

Jeanette was wearing a red jersey dress that clung to her curves and accentuated her breasts, which were full and bounced a little as she walked, like only real breasts can; and he was trying not to look at her nipples, which were hard as those pastel candy buttons he used to eat off paper when he was his daughter’s age. 

“I remember your cello from this morning,” Jeanette said.  “Is that why you’re in L.A.?”

Evan told her about the recording session with the rapper, and that, today, he’d finished his last track so, tomorrow, he’d be going home.  “You...” Evan said, as he removed two one-shot bottles of J&B from the minibar.  “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to make you feel better.”

But there was nothing overtly sexual in her voice, so Evan just said, “Well, you certainly did that this morning.”

“Actually, I’m here to direct a TV commercial.”

Evan noticed a long, black dog-hair on her dress.  He considered brushing it off, imagining, if he did, feeling the hollow of her belly button through that clinging red jersey.

“For Paxil,” she said.