tagRomanceThe Fall

The Fall


A short story about being stood up at the altar told from the man's point-of-view.

Seeing the hotel marquis welcoming Mr. & Mrs. Gregory T. Johnson gave me a reason to keep finding analogies. As empty as the first class seat next to me on the plane. As empty as the limo ride from the airport. Did "as empty as the heart-shaped hot tub" work as an analogy? I suck at coming up with a simile, metaphor, or analogy. I popped the top of the champagne bottle and began turning it into my next analogy. Before this evening was over, I would be able to say my love life felt as empty as this bottle of champagne.

"To my best man," I said, making my first toast of the night. Bubbly wasn't meant to be chugged. I released a long burp before pouring a second glass. "To HER best man!" I said, amending the toast and knocking back half the glass before the first tear started. Catching that tear in my tapered glass of sparkling wine made me laugh. "Crying into your champagne? How's that for a first world problem?" I should write that down. It would make a great gag for The Wilson Show, Tonight!

I couldn't blame her. Hell, why not? Michael Wilson's star was on the rise. He was gorgeous in that slick, dipped in plastic, Hollywood kind of way. He was funny, too. At least when he was reading the lines people like me wrote for him. We owed everything we had to his show. It was where we met. Where we fell in love. Hell, it was where I proposed.

You probably saw it. We did it as a Youtube gag and Michael featured it on his show as "The World's Worst Proposal." It was a great bit, shot in the park near the studio. Personally, I loved watching her ring falling through that storm drain. Bill did a wonderful job filming that so it looked spontaneous and accidental. Of course, the funny part was the effort I put into fishing it back out. Such a simple gag made so much more endearing because of its context.

Beth's star began rising while it was still on Youtube. Everyone wanted to know who was the cute girl with the dimples. She had offers stacking up, offers she couldn't take until we aired the one-two punch of the reveal. Here's the behind-the-scenes story you didn't know: remember when I proposed to her on-air? Yes, it was a real proposal. No, it wasn't a surprise for her. Neither was fumbling the ring and having it fall beneath Michael's desk. Of course, Beth chasing after the ring was made all the funnier after establishing that Michael was doing the show without pants.

You want more behind-the-scenes dirt? Michael really wasn't wearing pants that night. He was supposed to wear a merkin. (A merkin is a modesty covering actors often wear during nude scenes to maintain their privacy while still appearing nude. Think of it as a pubic wig.) His merkin fell off while he was undressing and the eyeful Beth received when she crawled beneath the desk was all Michael.

I don't know if Michael did it purposely. Of course, that was the rumor among the staff, a rumor that took on new significance after, well, after I was left standing at the altar. There really isn't an easy way to put that, is there? Michael was supposed to walk Beth down the aisle, not out the door of the church and into the limo waiting for Beth and I. Fucking prick.

So yeah, I went on the honeymoon by myself. Why not? Michael had prepaid for the cliche Niagara Falls honeymoon suite. He made sure it included all the honeymoon suite cliches with a heart-shaped hot tub and a round bed. I was drinking champagne bought and paid for by the man who had stolen my bride. The least I could do was run up as big of a room service tab as possible. This trip was as close to a severance package as I would get before I quit or got fired.

I broke both champagne glasses in the fireplace. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do after making a toast? You threw the glass in a fireplace to seal the deal, right? I purposely overfilled the hot tub with bubbles. And yes, I jerked off on the red negligee laying on the bed while giggling like a drunken madman. By the time morning arrived, the room looked like the set of "The Hangover" without the tiger in the bathroom.

A gentle rapping on the door was followed by a tiny voice, "Housekeeping." I was sprawled naked on the big round bed with an empty champagne bottle. I made the mistake of opening my eyes to a ray of sun. The vampires were right, sunlight does kill.

"Hold on," I groaned, rolling from the sunbeam and off the bed. Staggering into the bathroom, I pulled on one of the two robes hanging there. It read "Hers" across the breast. I didn't care. I stumbled to the front door, pulling it open to a very petite, blonde haired girl wearing a shy smile. She wore a maid uniform. She stood slightly behind her cart of supplies.

"I'm so sorry," she said, blinking as if she might recognize me from her TV. "I would come back except you're my last room for today."

"Bring it on in," I said, stepping back from the door. "Hell, I'll help." I started by picking up the soiled, red negligee and tossing it into a trash can.

"You're that TV guy, aren't you?" she asked, keeping the door propped open with her cart. "The funny one."

"In the flesh," I said, giving her a grand flourish with my arms before realizing how my gesture made the short robe carry up past the level of being discrete. She had known me less than sixty seconds and had already seen more of me than most women do on a first date. "Sorry," I said, lowering my arms and realizing pants would be a good idea.

"It's okay," she said, ignoring the flash I had inadvertently provided while heading to the bed. She pulled off the sheets, dragging the empty champagne bottle within reach and throwing it away.

"Sorry about the mess," I mumbled, picking up apples, pears, and oranges from the fruit basket. I had taken a single bite out of each and tossed them across the room. It took me a moment before realizing I was flashing her each time I bent for another piece of fruit.

"It's not too bad," she giggled, averting her eyes while still stealing glances. I guess she assumed I was flashing her as a joke. "This room can get pretty scary at times." She replaced the sheets and pillowcases with the practiced ease of a professional. I marveled at how quick and precise her tiny motions returned order to chaos.

She visited the bathroom and I was glad I had flushed after every use. The only towel used had been a hand towel. The only toiletry had been the bottle of hand lotion. Returning to her cart, she picked up two bottles of lotion. "Will two be enough?" she asked with sly smile that told me she understood why that was the only toiletry she was replacing.

"Better make it three, I'm flying solo," I joked without a smile.

"For whatever it's worth, I think Beth is a bitch," she offered, leaving a third bottle of lotion.

"It was all joke," I lied. "Including her leaving me at the altar."

She smiled before shaking her head with a sad look in her eyes. "I can tell it wasn't." She pulled a new bottle of champagne from her cart. From an onboard ice chest, she refilled the bucket for it before plunging it inside.

"How?" I asked, intrigued by her insightfulness. I sank into a chair in the sitting area, forgetting all I wore was a robe.

"You can tell a lot of about the guests by how they leave their rooms."

"And when they don't leave their rooms?" I asked, reasonably sure we were breaking some kind of hotel policy.

"They're either hiding something, don't trust housekeepers, or . . ." she shrugged. I prompted her to go on. "Sometimes they're just lonely or hoping to get lucky."

"Which am I?"

"From the way you're sitting?" she asked, with that same little smile. I quickly crossed my legs, embarrassed. "It's okay, I know you don't mean it. You're just lonely. I'm sorry Beth did that to you."

"Maybe I meant it," I said, realizing I looked like a hot mess, in need of a shave and a shower.

"Then do it again," she dared, strategically positioned between her cart and the door.

"You mean this?" I said, hanging an ankle over one knee while stretching out my arms on the back of the chair. I tried to look as casual as possible.

A faint blush rose to her cheeks as she giggled. "Okay, you win. You're lonely and horny and my work is done here." Before leaving, she left two mints on my pillows. She dragged her cart outside the room and closed the door behind her.

Like a shot, I darted to the door and threw it open. "Tell me you'll have dinner with me tonight."

"You'll have dinner with me tonight," she repeated, perfectly rendering the joke.

"Say, in my room?" I pressed.

"In my room?" she repeated, still going for the joke.

"Mine's probably nicer. How does seven o'clock sound?"

"Bong, bong, bong . . ." she said seven times while pushing her cart down the hallway. That's when a funny thing happened to me. I realized I was smiling.

I'm a comedy writer and bit performer on "The Wilson Show, Tonight!" I show up when they need an Average Joe to play the buffoon. I fit the bill too perfectly with my average build and usually unkempt cheeks and hair. Assuming she was a fan was the only way I could explain how things had gone late this morning. Still, I spent the day doing my best to look good for her. I pre-ordered room service and kept the champagne on ice.

She knocked softly on my door a few minutes before seven. Could she guess how much of a relief it was when she arrived early? "Housekeeping," she called. I swung open the door with a big grin and invited Lindsey inside. She wore jeans and a nice top that accentuated the gentle curves of her petite body. Makeup was kept light and simple, more a suggestion of color than painted on with a trowel. Her straight blonde hair hung straight and flat while moving like a curtain. I liked her bangs. "I'm not really supposed to visit guest rooms when I'm not clocked in."

"Then go punch in," I suggested.

That earned me a tiny smile. "I'm glad you see you dressed."

"Don't worry, I used my own towels so you won't have to work so hard tomorrow."

She tilted her head, trying to work out if I was serious or kidding. "That would make a good bit."

"I was just thinking that!" I said, darting for a piece of paper and scribbling down the kernel of comedy about a guy who uses his own towels and packs his own toilet paper. "Would people get it if the towels were the same as hotel towels?"

"Maybe," she said, sitting on the couch and watching as I scribbled at the desk. "Especially if it was a full set: big towel, hand towel, and then a wash cloth folded into a fan."

"He should bring his own toiletries, too, shouldn't he?" I suggested, capturing as much of the idea as I could. Good ideas are too precious to waste.

"Including a really oversized bottle of hand lotion," Lindsey quipped. "Like jumbo sized, but everything else should be hotel room sized. A tiny shampoo, tiny conditioner . . ."

"And the giant sized bottle of lotion!" I said, instantly picking up on the humor. "Genius!"

"He should start by throwing away all of the hotel supplies, including the towels. That would make every housekeeper in the audience groan because we hate when people throw away towels."


"Because we have to fish them out of the trash and give them to laundry services."

"Ew, really?" I asked, suddenly wishing I had brought my own towels.

Lindsey laughed. "No. If it's in the trash, we don't touch it. That's gross as hell and I don't want to know what made a towel so nasty you felt like throwing it away."

More importantly, though, she had gotten me. That wasn't easy to do. I laughed and opened the door for room service. With Michael paying, I went all out. I ordered full dinner service that included setting up a table with two chairs and a waiter who stood discretely to the side. Not knowing what she might want, I ordered one of everything.

"So wasteful," she giggled, enjoying the trays of choices.

"So was what I did to that negligee last night," I quipped.

"Please tell me you didn't try it one first."

"Did you want to see the pictures?"

Lindsey laughed, instantly recognizing my throwaway line as the joke it was. Biting back her laughter, she gave me a serious look, "Actually, I really would." She was able to hold the serious look long enough to make me flinch before we both laughed.

We laughed. So much magic in such a tiny sentence. Two words. Nine letters. Noun followed by verb. Nothing else needed. We laughed. Before the champagne. Hell, before dessert. We laughed and I healed as joy poured back into my oh-so-recently discarded heart. The champagne began with the orgasmic popping of the cork and two friends shared that bubbling broth. Midway through the bottle, we laughed and I wept with happy tears.

"Watch this," I howled as I felt a tear rolling down my face. "I wrote this joke last night: The ultimate first world problem." I caught it in my glass. I held the glass in front of my face, staring at the bubbles, unable to see the tear. My smile faded. "It was funnier last night."

"No, it wasn't," Lindsey said, taking the glass from me. She placed it top of the fireplace, either out of reach or on display, I wasn't sure which. Coming back to our private table, she passed her glass to me. "Drink from mine, but please, only sip from here." She pointed to the faint impression her lipstick had made on the glass. As I reached for the glass, she pulled it back. "I'm serious. Promise me you shall only drink from here." She again indicated that slight stain.

"I promise," I said. She moved to give me the glass once more before pulling it back. Was this a game? I couldn't be sure as she topped off the glass with more champagne. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I anticipated her pulling the glass away once more. Instead, she didn't offer it. Instead, she gave me a solemn look.

"Would you like to know why you must drink from only here, where my lips have been?" she asked and I felt it building. There would be a sage-like bit of advice. A moment of sincerity like dessert to the meal of our mirth. I nodded, waiting for it. "Because otherwise it's messy," she said, planting her lips on the far side of the glass, tipping it and pouring champagne down her front.

I should have seen it coming. It was an old joke well played and ended with laughter. I pointed to the stain on her pretty blouse, "Keep your glass, it looks as if someone has a drinking problem!" I picked up the bottle, tossed it back, when she tapped the bottom of it, pouring more champagne into my mouth than I was ready to handle. And again, we laughed.

It had taken three food carts to bring one of each entree to my room. We had long since dismissed our waiter, but he left behind the cart filled with desserts. We attacked that cart, filling our dining table with every sweet delicacy offered by the kitchen. Lindsey started it. She built a sundae from slightly melted ice cream, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. When I wasn't looking, she flinged a dollop of whipped cream at me. "Oops," she giggled. I immediately returned fire with a bit of meringue from a cream pie. That earned a splattering of pudding on my cheek but before I creamed her with a handful of Jello, I hesitated.

"Wait, you work here," I said, concerned about destroying the room.

"I'm off tomorrow," she giggled and expertly tipped my handful of Jello into my face before a food fight broke out that would make all three of the stooges proud. Somewhere in the middle of that food fight, there was a kiss, followed by a second and a third. And soon dessert topping became body paint and tongues became eager paint brushes. "You know, I saw everything this afternoon when I was cleaning your room."

"And you still came back," I said, kissing her messy face.

"Like I said, you know I saw everything," she said as her hand slipped between my legs. "We should shower first." She led me towards the shower by "my everything."

"Was this why you came back for dinner?" I asked, ever hopeful that my manhood could inspire such sluttish behavior.

"Partly," she said, stepping into the big, glass shower and pulling me along. "Mostly because I'm a sucker for a sob story."

"Interesting choice of words," I grinned as the smeared food left her face and her natural beauty re-emerged.

"And, because you're famous," she added, throwing me into a tailspin as I realized she was a groupie.


"Plu-eeze," she chortled. "Have you ever seen that show?"

"Right answer," I laughed before she slipped down my body and demonstrated just how much of a sucker she could be. I pulled her to her feet before I reached the punchline. Fluffy towels waited for us before we began rolling around on a circular bed. Every bit of her tasted divine, from the cherry-like red of her stiff nipples to the sweetness between her legs. Laughter was replaced with appreciative sighs and soft moans as body parts merged with the same amount of joy.

We did all the things that should happen in a bed designed for honeymoons. We took turns on top with our kisses and our bodies. We gave each other a reason to need a second shower in the morning. And when that sunbeam found our naked bodies entwined, I knew the vampire curse had been lifted.

After another shower, I wanted to tidy up the room before we left. "I know the maid and she's a bitch," Lindsey insisted with a rakish grin that suggested a score to settle. We ordered clothes brought up to her from the hotel gift shop and shopped wearing matching robes. Too bad they didn't sell underwear at the gift shop since we had a date on the Maid of Mist and heard it can wet on that boat.

Before leaving the room, Lindsey carefully poured the champagne from my glass back into the bottle. She put the cork in it and carried it with her. That tear would have the chance for last fall.

This is the first time I've tried the Romance. As I studied the category list for where to place this little story, Romance felt most right. I'm hoping that was a good choice and my story didn't disappoint too much. Comments are always appreciated and thank you for reading!

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by Kitist0209/25/17


I was pleasantly surprised by this one. It was light, delicate, and a great turn-around in such a short story. It was a nice hook to have her be a groupie. It gives the rest of the story something to hangmore...

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