Anita propped her elbows on the table and her eyes wandered while she thought about something, and she sipped her coffee and said, looking down at her...cup, softly, "So you're the type who writes poems."That sounded a little ominous. I thought: Congratulations, idiot, you just blew her away. She hates guys who write poems.She murmured into her coffee cup. "Well... that's so nice. A poem that made her cry." Not ponderous, anxious stuff, you understand. Just a quickie, you know, like a greeting. We found the suite and walked in. The place was nice – I’ve since discovered most suites are – and Bryan instantly found a stash of coffee straws. He cut one short with a pocketknife, gathered them in his hand, and turned to me. ‘You first, honey,’ he mocked me. Silently, I drew. Long. No key for me. I walked over to my pull-out chair and began making it up as a bed while the other guys drew. Brad drew the key, much to his satisfaction, and Dale surrendered it without a fight. We were all. More

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