She turns her back to him and pulls aside her long, blonde hair revealing bare, sun-tanned shoulders.
He smiles as he inches close. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in the crook of her slender neck. He inhales deeply.
“Hurry,” she whispers.
With a thumb and forefinger, he lightly grasps the zipper on the back of her tight cocktail dress. He lowers it, unbearably slow. She lets out a faint moan.
A chance meeting in a hotel bar. He can’t believe his luck.
So lucky he never sees the closet door ease open, the shadowy figure, the syringe.
The Weekday One Hundred 