I’m at the International New Age Trade Show, sitting next to my publicist. We’re at the banquet — a not-bad buffet wrapped around an award show extended by several lengthy musical performances.
The food’s decent — chicken breasts, curried veggies, rice, salads. It’s an S-day, so I have a modest piece of German chocolate cake.
When our plates are clean, a young waiter appears to carry them away. He is casually handsome in a young waiter kind of way, and, as he clears our table, he strikes up a conversation with my publicist.
“This isn’t what I do full time,” he says. “I’m a massage therapist.”
“Oh?” my publicist replies. “Like with a little table and everything?”
The waiter nods. “I should have brought it with me,” the waiter says. “I could have set it up in a back room.” He leans in close and lowers his voice. “I could have made several people very happy tonight.”
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