The fiasco had settled. The “Wet Spot Incident” was buried under a pile of towels and a solid eight hours of “Tantra-style” damage control. I had broken her down. Not with words, not with apologies, but with sheer, unadulterated physical endurance. The anger about driving across international lines to find a drunk ghost? Gone. Evaporated in the heat of the room.
We didn’t stop until 10 p.m.
She got up. She went to the mirror. And she put on her war paint.
She slipped into a golden blouse. Open back. You could see the muscles, the architecture of a woman who takes care of herself. Her hair was fresh, a “prom of golden locks” cascading down. I watched her from the bed, my body broken, my soul tired, thinking, My god. I am punching so far above my weight class I might get a nosebleed.
We hit the streets of Portland. I took her to Jake’s Famous Crawfish.
It’s an institution. White tablecloths, waiters in jackets, the smell of money and old seafood. But we weren’t there for the full-price menu. We were there for the late-night happy hour—the twilight zone where they sell off the high-end leftovers for pennies on the dollar. Lobster tacos. Clam chowder that tastes like heavy cream and heaven.
The place was packed. Standing room only. I found a table, and I didn’t just sit; I saddled the chair. I opened my legs, took up space, and pulled her chair in so close that my knees were practically framing her.
I put my hand on her back. Right on that open skin.
It wasn’t just a touch; it was a claim. It was a “Do Not Trespass” sign posted in neon lights for every other hungry bastard in the room.
The bartender came over. I didn’t ask her what she wanted; I just ordered. Drinks. Appetizers. The whole spread. We sat there for hours, eating rich food, drinking cheap booze, and ignoring the chaos around us.
I never looked at the room. Not once. I didn’t scan for the exits. I didn’t check out the waitress. I gave this woman—this Canadian banker who had every reason to hate me—my full, undivided, and completely intense attention. I looked her in the eye and told her she was beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t selling a line. I meant it.
And then, the bill came.
I didn’t check the total. I didn’t squint at the line items. I didn’t pull out a calculator.
I just tossed the credit card onto the little black tray.
And that, my friends, was the kill shot.
She told me later. She confessed.
“I’ve never been with a man like you,” she said. “Usually, when I wear this outfit, when I go out looking like this, men gawk. They stare. I feel like meat.”
“But tonight?” she said. “Nobody looked. Nobody dared. Because you had your hand on my back the whole time. Everyone in that room knew I was yours.”
She looked at me with those big, intelligent eyes. “You took control. You ordered. You paid without looking, like it meant nothing. It was so… Alpha. So macho. I’m not used to that. I’m used to cheap bastards who want to split the check.”
That was the moment. That was the exact second she fell in love. Not in the bed. Not during the apology. But right there, watching a broke man throw down a credit card like he owned the Federal Reserve.
We walked back to the Marriott.
The “practice” was over. The “performance” was done.
What happened in that room the second time wasn’t a workout. It was organic. It was a genuine, slow-burn dance between two people who had started the day in a tragedy and ended it in a triumph.
It was our last night in Portland.
And goddamn, we made it count.
