George was a man who believed in signs. A red-tailed hawk soaring above him on his right side could be a warning of some sort. A certain ache in his knee foretelling a shift in the weather…or his pet canary suddenly going silent—always a sign of negative energy about to hit.

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“So what are you going to give Leonard for his birthday?” Her bridge party pals were prodding her again. At that “somewhere-over-the-hillish” side of life she was a free woman—widowed and living unencumbered for the very first time. She’d met Leonard at a ballroom dance class. He literally swept her off her feet. 

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The moon was huge. Its light so loud and bright in the sky it seemed like the whole world was up and dancing under it. The city was definitely not asleep. Pulsing music roared out from every open door and window. The booming thrum-beat of rap shook inside every passing car. TestosteROCK `n roll. Yeh, baby. Do it, do it good. His taxi screeched right in front of Big Daddy’s and he leaped out, his eyes doing a quick panorama-scan of the moonlit setting where Cindy promised she’d appear.

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The card directed him to Jack’s on 7^th and Madison on Saturday at 10 pm. He was to sit in the last booth next to the band. And wait. By the time he got there the place was teeming. Thick with a massive crowd, the din of shouting, clinking glasses, and the piercing beat of the Irradicks. It was like walking into a thunder storm. The last booth had a “reserved” card on it, just as the Pantygram message indicated.

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She sat at the bar and watched him. He was the one in the ripped red t-shirt who was presently being trampled in the mosh-pit. The music was pounding. The sound of bodies body-slamming into each other the impact resonating throughout the club. He held his own. She thought he was insanely sexy. Falling and getting up again. Catapulting into backs and faces. Arms. Hands. Legs. Feet. Slam-slam-slam. It was madness. Like watching crazed gladiators. The strongest would survive.

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She sat at the bar and watched him. He was the one in the ripped red t-shirt who was presently being trampled in the mosh-pit. The music was pounding. The sound of bodies body-slamming into each other the impact resonating throughout the club. He held his own. She thought he was insanely sexy. Falling and getting up again. Catapulting into backs and faces. Arms. Hands. Legs. Feet. Slam-slam-slam. It was madness. Like watching crazed gladiators. The strongest would survive.

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“You did WHAT???!!!” Her friends were screaming in her face, their lattes nearly spilling across the table.  Surrounding customers looked up startled by the high-pitched conversation in her direction. She answered them calmly, “I sent him a Sendapantygram.com. In fact, by now he’s holding some tiny little red lacy undies in his hands this very minute. He should have it around the eighteenth hole. I sent them to his caddie at the course…”

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“What in the world…???!!!!” Standing in the buff, she immediately grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. Still in shock, she nearly fell over discovering that it was Madge, her husband’s assistant—not her husband—who now faced her. “Jane????!!!!! What are YOU doing here? I was about to squash someone named, `Pumpkin’—certainly not YOU!” Jane tightened the towel against her while collapsing into the nearest chair. “I happen to be `Pumpkin,’” she said near tears. “I was trying to seduce my husband with a Sendapantygram.com little red panties and a big imagination. We’ve become—well you might say, kind of distant with each other. I thought this would do the trick to wake up the sleeping giant, if you get my drift.” Now it was Madge’s turn to collapse onto the bed. “OMG I’ve made a mess of everything. I came here to help save your marriage and now I lost my job!”

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Her heart was pounding. He should have opened the envelope right now and about to follow her precise instructions—written in the most “sex-in- the-city-ish-guaranteed-to-cause-blushing-ished” style. He was to meet her at the Center on Nine Street Hotel, room #208 on Friday night at 8pm, and bring nothing but his libido. She was taking care of the libations—and more. She signed the Sendapantygram.com card, “With love, Pumpkin.” He used to call her that at one time. She hoped he’d remember. He was to knock twice and then she would open the door. Oh, and don’t forget to bring those fancy panties. They were integral to everything that would transpire. She packed her bag and realized she was shaking.

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He raced into his office texting, listening to his Ipod and running to grab the phone. He was always on the move, no time to think, to breathe, to answer the mail. He shouted out to his assistant asking her to go through the growing stack in his inbox and just give her the important stuff. She grabbed the pile and began filing open each piece—zip, zip, zip. And then she stopped at a strange-looking envelope marked “Confidential.” Whoa. It was a Sendapantygram.com. Well, he told her to open everything.

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