I couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t cold. My lungs weren’t hurting particularly. I knew what had happened. I was dead. The murk was just the mess I’d made of my life. Maybe I would have eternity to clear it up. For some reason I remembered just when I’d lost Hope.My mid-life crisis hit the day I realized thirty-three was half-way through my life expectancy. Of course, technically, having already survived Viet Nam, I should have had a much longer life expectancy than the sixty-six that was estimated in 1982, but apparently I had seriously over-estimated.At thirty-three, I’d just been promoted to full partner and celebrated by buying a brand new bright yellow Mustang convertible. I moved to a new apartment in a trendy part of town where I could hold huge parties for young, equally trendy people. There was just one thing missing in my life, and I went hunting for a beautiful, young, and trendy girlfriend. Hope springs eternal.Hope was her name.We met at the top of Mt. Si on a Saturday. Fingernails run across my skin, the white silk barely deadening the sensation, as she begins to unbutton my blouse from the top. I'm standing like a dummy, I realise, and move to stroke her. But as she feels me move towards her bra-strap, she smoothly rolls her hands around and takes my wrists. With another long kiss, she passes my left arm to her left hand, behind my back, and holds them there – again, gently. Her right hand is freezing and a shudder runs across my skin as it scratches slowly across my back. She pinches open my bra and I twist my left hand free, needing to feel the touch of her torso. She pulls back again, and looks me in the eyes. "Okay," she murmurs, taking my left hand and passing it behind my back again, "I'm pretty sure I know the easiest thing to do here." Her right hand reaches for my desk to find the black roll of body-tape I keep, and her left hand has tightened its grip considerably. She, without fanfare, turns me away from her, parallel to the wall, and,.
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