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'Forget it,' she said, pulling the duvet up. 'If it’s not happening, it’s not happening. But I’m not wasting a five-star room. Pass me a glass of that wine; let’s just see if these squids find love instead.'"

'Is it the pressure?' she asked, her voice surprisingly soft. 'Forget it,' she said, pulling the duvet up

'I think it’s the everything,' I muttered, staring at the ceiling. 'The work week, the expectations, the fact that I’ve been staring at a spreadsheet for twelve hours a day. My brain hasn’t left the office even if I have.' Pass me a glass of that wine; let’s

"...The lighting in the hotel room was a warm, amber glow—the kind specifically designed to make everything look better than it is. And she did look good. She had that poise you only get with experience, a 'intellectual beauty' as the profile said, with a confidence that made the air feel thick. But my body wasn't getting the memo. My brain hasn’t left the office even if I have

Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle of wine breathing on the nightstand, I was a complete no-show. It’s a special kind of ego death when the spirit is willing but the flesh is basically a cooked noodle. She eventually sat back, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and looked at me—not with anger, but with a sort of clinical pity that felt even worse.

She laughed then, a genuine sound that broke the suffocating 'sexy' atmosphere. She reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned on a nature documentary about deep-sea squids.