I unroll my yoga mat. I enjoy stretching by my pool in the evening hours when the sun just starts to dip beneath the tops of the surrounding Santa Monica Mountains.

The Hollywood Hills are unseasonably hot this spring and I know the best time to beat the heat is in the evenings. Even still, a tiny bead of sweat rolls down my taut abs as I bend into the warrior pose, and then the camel.

A wisp of blonde hair falls from my ponytail, and I break my concentration to shove it behind an ear. Then I get down on all fours, walk my palms out in front of me, lift my hips to lengthen my spine, and offer my perfect ass up to the sky.

My phone vibrates with an incoming text message, and I take a break to read it.

Jenna: ICYMI I emailed you the itinerary for Vegas with some much needed adjustments.

I think about the acronym ICYMI for a minute. What does that mean again? And since when did being 35 start to feel so old? Then I remember it is short for "in case you missed it." With phone in hand, I walk back into the house.

Fuck feeling old. I feel young.

Coming down south was the way I figured all along I’d go to Vegas. I just didn’t tell David.

I call her. I am not much for texting, and I did look at her email. “Speaking of making me feel old!” I say by way of greeting.

Jenna just laughs. She’s all young and bubbly and doesn’t mind flaunting it, but aside from working with her, I also consider her a really good friend, so I can deal with it. “Christina, you and I are going to go to clubs and we are getting lap dances. When else will you have the chance to do this stuff? We’re going to Vegas, baby!”

I can’t help but smile. “Okay, so maybe your enthusiasm is rubbing off on me,” I confess. “It is Vegas and I didn’t mean to ignore you, babe. I just don’t know. I already don’t know what to bring for this…” My words trail off. Okay, so I totally do. My clothing budget has been tight lately, but I do have some non-yoga outfits in mind. “My green evening gown, you know the one—”

“Yes, I do!” Jenna exclaims.

Now we’re both laughing.

“Okay, we’re going to Vegas,” I say out loud. I put my hands on my hips. “I think I needed to say that aloud to myself. I guess, after what happened with Steven…god, you probably don’t want me bringing this up again,” I say with a sigh.

“Christina, you get to talk about your husband dying inside of another man and leaving the entire inheritance to your step-son as much as you want,” Jenna says sweetly. “And I always want to hear what’s on your mind, babe. We can talk about that dick as much you want. Or as little.”

So much for feeling old. We’re both in a peal of giggles now and I know she’s referring to the fact that Steven never sexually satisfied me. Girls, we talk about everything, right?

Can we talk about the fact that I fucked David just yesterday?

“Well, I’m not looking to get laid in Vegas. Girl time, that sounds totally fair,” I tell her. “Seem fair, Jenna?”

Jenna pauses. “We’ll see,” she says like she has the absolute answers to everything. “And you’re sure you want to drive?”

I purse my lips. “Yeah, I think it will be good and scenic.” The truth is, my budget is tight. I need money and I probably wouldn’t even go to this hospitality convention if I hadn’t already paid for my ticket and actually set aside a small budget for incidentals and gas. I hoped it would be fun money, I’d even be able to play some video poker or something, but I need every penny to go as far as it can.

“Gotcha!” Jenna is cheery, and sweet enough to that if she realizes that I’m fucking broke, she’s not acknowledging it.

“I’m actually about to grab a quick dinner and then I’m out of here. See you at the hotel,” I say.

“Sure thing. TEXT ME!” Jenna says, hanging up with a laugh.

I gather up my bags and look inside my wallet at the pitiful collection of twenties that I’ve set aside for this. There is no way I can enjoy Vegas when I’m so completely broke that I can’t pay attention!

Still, I’m doing the best I can with what I have. I fold up the green evening gown and my best lingerie. I grab my makeup bag and bring all the colors that I haven’t worn in years. Steven, my now dead husband, never seemed to appreciate what he thought of as my “past” — I danced at the Spearmint Rhino to pay for college and apparently red lipstick and stripping go hand in hand and are some kind of bad thing.

I don’t miss the man. He was cruel.

But I do think about David and I feel a tinge of guilt.

Guilt because I remember a time he saw me putting on my red lipstick. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it. I can still remember our eyes locking after I saw his pulsing erection in his jeans.

Guilt because I could have stayed with him one more day maybe. I could have gone from Palo Alto to Vegas straight.

What made me go up a day earlier with the paperwork?

Did I really want to see what would happen?

Well, now I did, didn’t I? And was it worth it.

I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.

The real reason I haven’t even tried to think of dating anyone is because I can’t stop thinking about how hard my stepson made me come. I think I’ll shiver if I even think about it. I know, that’s so wrong.

I close my car door and grip the steering wheel, ready to head for Vegas. At least this convention will be good for my career. Spending time with my coworkers and friends, that will be nice, too.

The house is empty now — Steven is dead, and David is at Stanford. I almost wish that I could go to Vegas and never come back.

But for what? I don’t know, I can’t seem to get excited about the convention or Vegas. Maybe when I get there, I’ll feel differently.