M I C H A E L C O S T E L L O
“Meet me at the hotel in Room 1979,” she texted. “I need your help with my dress.”
“Are we zipping it up?” he replied.
“I never said I was dressed.”
A long pause.
“Will you be wearing Costello?”
“When am I not?”
He smiled at his phone.
“You know, if I were gay, I’d be in serious trouble.”
She laughed.
“Why?”
“Because Michael Costello is exactly my type.”
She shook her head.
“That’s a very specific answer.”
“I’m just saying… that man knows how to cut a fucking dress.”
“That’s what you’re attracted to?”
“Partly.”
She stared at the screen.
“Makes you wonder what other talents he’s hiding.”
Now she wasn’t laughing.
“I don’t think Michael is the confession in that sentence.”
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Then appeared again.
“What exactly are we talking about here?”
He smiled.
“That’s the interesting part.”
“Room 1979?”
