Okay, so there’s always another thing to tell; you just decided to delete it from the telling. It doesn’t go with the tone you are trying to create. Right?

So here it is…the gory little detail.

I went to Hotwire to book a hotel for a night on the way up to the lake. Given the accident I wrote about (I’m here, but the car’s not), we decided to drive to the lake at a reasonable pace. You know, stop for a bite to eat, and a good night’s rest.

When I saw the hotel price, two stars and all, I was like, Gosh, what a deal!

My heart sank when I saw the place. I had just coached Paul, “Ask for an upgrade. It never hurts.” One glance and I knew no upgrade here.

It was the kind of place you might just stay in when you’re eighteen. Carpet ragged, bed sagging and low to the floor. One upright chair. A drizzle for a shower. Flies inside when you open the door.

A burger and wine later, we hit the sack. The sack groaned. Paul looked expectant, like an eighteen-year-old.  Here? Tonight? Really?