The battered and bruised man hobbled the short distance to his room, mostly wishing he had stayed in Stonesthrow. He sat on the edge of the bed, but was slow noticing the oscillating peep of the phone receiver swinging from the side of the table. He must have knocked it off the hook in his mad scramble to the door. On reconnecting the receiver to the base, he contemplated his shoes under the same nightstand; gravity, with other plans, handily pulled his aching body down on the bed.

A soft voice took the form of a ledge in the darkness. “I’m sorry if I startled you earlier.”

Michael probed for the lamp switch on the nightstand; a hand lit tenderly on his.

“Leave it,” she said, seizing the moment to kick off her high heels. “Can I crawl in for a second?”

He rolled over onto his sore back, where accommodations were made.

“Are you in pain?”

The fragrant form of her wafted over the bed, as though heavy summer clouds had overtaken him in a nap. Yet beyond the white of her teeth, and curl of her thick eyelashes, she was both too dim and too close to see.

“Lay on your stomach,” she instructed.

With effort, the wounded man complied. A firm hand slid over his shoulder blade to burrow deep into his spine; his ache melted away.

Her sweet breath brushed the tendons in his neck while she massaged. “My name is Amber. Amber Monet.”

He drew what details he could from her face. “Are you any relation to Daedalus Monet of Stonesthrow?”

“The guy who designed the golf course?”

“Yes.”

“No. Amber Monet is my professional name.”

“You need a professional name for domestic service?”

“No.” She paused to let his eyes drop and trace the contour of her shoulder in the white uniform, which was far enough away to delineate on a horizon. More words drew him back to the shape of her mouth. “This is a costume.”

“But I thought you worked in the building?”

“Only in the sense I’m a working girl.”

“I see,” he mumbled. “What happened? ...Earlier?”

“What do you think happened?”

He did not want to spell it out. “But you’re seeing Omar, right?”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Not exactly.”

“I work for an escort service.” She quickly added, “Although I’m really just cultivating future prospects as a therapist. A sexual therapist.”

Her silky hose grazed his knee. He asked the obvious. “Am I a prospect?”

“Do you want to be a prospect?”

He withdrew into the pillow a little. “I should think…” he began hesitantly. “After what happened… or almost happened…”

“It was wonderful,” she volunteered.

Even in the dark, his incredulity was clear.

“I mean…” she clarified with a wisp of a smile, “it would have been wonderful.”

Michael could no more gauge the sincerity in her voice than read her murky face.

“This is personal,” she explained. “My wanting to talk to you is less business and more personal.”

He responded positively to this confession.

“Omar says you’re an artist,” she announced inquisitively. “I majored in art history for a couple of years at the Institute.”

“Really?”

She chuckled. “Don’t be so surprised. Not every hooker is a high school dropout.”

The man was embarrassed.

Another change of scenery hurled by. Amber leaned forward, letting her pulsing fingers carve a path to his lower back. “Omar mentioned you have a girlfriend?”

Michael was attracted to the frank nature of her conversation; however, he was not keen on this subject. His parry was more revealing than he intended. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a real girlfriend.”

“Why haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?”

One evasive answer required another. “It’s complicated.”

“I bet you like college women? Smart women?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Do smart women intimidate you?”

The topic was general enough. “Smart, by college standards, usually means being so myopic as to be dull, or so myopic as to be arrogant and judgmental.”

Amber smiled. “You sound like Omar.”

“I speak as I find.”

“What about women in the arts? Surely you have more to work with there.”

“It depends on their relationships with their fathers.”

“Explain?”

The painter gave his considered opinion. “Women who have good relationships with their fathers tend to be good-natured, have practical intelligence, and are fun-loving. Those who don’t have good relationships tend to have issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Higher education in the arts often translates into self-therapy. The more intelligent and intimidating the father, as Omar says, the more bitter the rebellion.”

“Give me examples?”

Michael dredged up his list. “Lesbian-wannabes, closet anorexics, hit-and-run nymphomaniacs…”

“And this has been your experience?”

“Pretty much my whole history. What little there is.”

Amber made a preliminary judgment. “I think the problem with the women you mention may have as much to do with their age as their relationship with their fathers.”

“One definitely fuels the other,” he conceded.

The masseuse toyed with a caress. “Have you ever tried dating older women?”

“How old are you?”

“I just turned thirty-one.”

“I would have guessed mid-twenties.”

“Would you date a thirty-one year-old?”

He sidestepped. “It’s not by design I date women of any age.”

“But young girls are always around. Always approachable. Yes?”

“Something like that.”

“They’re less judgmental of your life choices, too. Being so young.”

“Yes.”

“I also suspect their youth allows you to be fully yourself.”

"You’re thorough.”

“But am I right?” Her voice ground down in the darkness. “Are you a little boy in a man’s body?”

Even in the dimness, his blushing was hard to hide.

She continued, “You’re not comfortable in your skin, are you? Not aggressive?”

“Is it that noticeable?”

“These women with issues—did they approach you?”

There was a reluctant nod.

Her tone, less sultry, strove for objectivity. “Your passivity has limited your options, I dare say. Women with low self-image will often compensate for it by being aggressive, and in ways that bode no good for someone like you. They can’t lash out at the men they hate most so pick on the men they hate least.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Have you ever acted on one of these ‘daddy’s girls’ you like?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Fear, I guess.”

“Fear?”

He was candid. “I’m a romantic person. Too much of a romantic for my own good. I tend to idealize women—and am easily hurt.”

“So you’re afraid of being rejected by your ideal?”

“Yes.” (Michael knew how pathetic he sounded.)

Amber detected an inconsistency. “But it’s a lose-lose proposition, isn’t it? If the one woman that should make you risk rejection is also the one woman you cannot risk being rejected by?”

The man was despondent. “Logic can make no sense of it. And given how fickle women can be, it is all but impossible to get around.”

She leaned away from his pillow, sorting it out. “So what else can you tell me about this ‘ideal woman’ of yours?”

Michael assumed a lofty tone. “It’s like Aristotle’s ‘Golden Means’.”

“Golden Means?”

He explained, “It’s a sliding scale between contradictory qualities. My ideal is funny, yet serious; quirky, yet sensible; friendly, yet discriminating; vulnerable, yet strong; practical, yet spontaneous; naughty, yet nice. She has the best kind of intelligence: wit. And the best kind of virtue: honesty about herself. Her imperfections spring primarily from a desire to be better.”

“What about sexually? Would she be half-madonna and half-whore?”

The man was grudging on the point. “I know it all sounds impossible. But, as Omar always says, contradiction is only an impediment to weak intellects.”

The prostitute put her own spin on it. “But most women are doubled-minded as a rule. Maybe not with the degree of exactness you require. What you might regard as fickle is often a woman thinking out loud. A woman’s reason is more malleable than a man’s. More open to persuasion and change of feeling.”

Michael was tortured in his honesty. “I’m easily dissuaded as a suitor. Ready to accept any hesitancy as a resolute no. Omar says my obliging literal-mindedness when it comes to female proclamations makes me every feminist’s dream-come-true, and every woman’s worst nightmare.”

Amber laughed. “I can see that! You and Omar are a lot alike.”

“We’re day and night.”

“Only at one level.” She made her case. “Like the women you were criticizing earlier, the ones with bad relationships with their fathers, I suspect you both have wounded relationships with your mothers. There’s as much pain as smarts in your opinions.”

He was struck by her observation.

“So how many ideal women are we talking about in your past?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many women have you not risked being rejected by?”

“A few.”

“Can you give me a profile of one?”

“Well,” Michael hemmed. “I can’t say that any of them rose to the level of a profile.”

“What are you working from as a template?”

“Models. Actresses. Women in magazines…”

“And the Golden Means test. This is just a wish list?”

“I suppose.”

“Were you ever romantically attracted to any of the women you ended up dating? Apart from them not meeting your ideal threshold?”

“Of course.”

“But…?”

“But things went awry. Like I said.”

“They lost interest?”

“Or I did.”

“How often were they the wounded party?”

“Can one ever say for sure in such cases?”

“But what were your feelings at the end? Did you have misgivings about it not working out?”

Michael was plainspoken. “When it ended—by the time it ended—, I knew it was for the best.”

“Then you were relieved?”

It had never been put so starkly.

She made it palatable. “You were relieved because, ultimately, they were not what you most wanted.”

“Yes.”

“And what about the whore?”

“Whore?”

“The whore. Did any of your unions fare better in that department?”

“You mean where there was only physical attraction?”

“Yes.”

“Not really.”

She seized on the noncommittal answer. “None worked out?”

“Well…”

“Were there regrets?”

“Again, it’s not easy to categorize such things.”

Amber summed up. “But on the scorecard of women, the objects rate higher than the near-miss ideals—if on a technicality.”

He scrambled to put it in context. “Objects (to use that term) have a far lower bar to clear.”

The prostitute smiled. “But when there’s nothing else around, what’s around can be like nothing else.”

Michael would not be goaded by her riddle.

She went further. “I suspect you have a standard here, too. Although, I dare say, you would be embarrassed to express it.”

The man felt exposed in the darkness. The woman had him under a pair of infrared binoculars. He retreated into generalities. “I’m a hopeless case.”

She was less dire. “I think what you really want—need—is a mother’s unconditional love.”

“Is this your professional opinion?”

“This is my opinion as a woman. Once you’ve found someone who truly loves you, the rest (both in and out of the bedroom) is just details to be worked out. Provided you don’t lose faith with the process.”

“It’s hard for me to do that. I have to see where I’m going.”

She countered, “But love means you can’t necessarily see where you’re going.”

“But love requires a kind of working definition, doesn’t it? A common starting place?”

“You’re over-intellectualizing it, Michael. Love is not a requirement to start anything, only a requirement to continue.”

He was not sure he understood what she meant in an applicable sense.

“Can I give you some advice?” she asked.

He shook his head with reservation.

“Women don’t make up their minds all at once. Don’t take it personally until it gets personal.”

Michael wanted to buy into the overall sentiment. “Can love save me?”

Amber turned philosophical. “For all its pain in practice, I think love is redemptive in theory. No one enters into it clean, but it makes all things clean by just being present. It’s not always pretty—the getting there. But the awkward missteps are soon forgiven, or forgotten. And in hindsight everything appears to have been perfectly designed from the beginning. Destined.” She sat up on the bed, going grayer in shadow. “Do you believe it was destiny we met?”

He replied with more feeling than he realized. “I do.”