“My sources,” an employee told me, “say that he messed up. It was not consensual.”Note the need to cite sources, for only two people know the truth.
One descended the staircase before midnight, drove through the gates and down the mountain, fifteen miles to her parents’ home.
He had spent much of his childhood in Italy, absorbing the old-world culture while learning his craft at his father’s side.
At the four-stool bar, the flagons of single-malt stood corked and tranquil.
She walked the hallway, past the reproductions of the masters and the fine-art photographs, stopping at a heavy wooden door. He answered: a handsome face with a lot of kid to it, and a smile that made you want to smile back. Though they had met less than an hour earlier, when she handed him his room key, she seemed strangely familiar.
The next day, she filed charges with the sheriff of Eagle County, claiming she had been raped.
The other had arthroscopic surgery on his right knee as scheduled, then met with sheriff’s detectives, professed his innocence and returned to Los Angeles, where, a few weeks later, he publicly confessed to the sin of adultery and asked to be forgiven by his wife and his god.
Already light-headed at 8,200 feet, I nearly reeled.