As he pulls into the valet parking area of the downtown hotel, he wonders for the hundredth time what he is doing here. Sneaking out of the house on some made up pretense, meeting a woman who is married herself? So many things could go wrong with this, starting with just checking in. They're going to need a driver's license, his name, his address.
He slows the car to a stop and once more he thinks, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." He thinks about pulling away, but just then the valet reaches down and opens the car door, calling him "Sir," asking if he's got any luggage. He boldly answers no, and hands a $20 bill to the valet. "Take good care of it," he says cooly and walks straight through the front doors.
He wonders if he's having a breakdown of some kind as he strides across the lobby just like a man who isn't trysting in this hotel. This smooth, cool style just isn't the man he's used to being. He's not bold. He's not smooth, definitely not cool. As he asks for a suite (with a view), he thinks about Her. He thinks about the first time he saw Her, how sexy he thought she was: strawberry blonde hair; full curvy figure. He remembers the first time he said something to her and made her smile; how her entire face lit up and became even more attractive. How her eyes sparkled and her teeth showed white.
He thought of the hours and hours of subsequent conversations, starting with innocent and mutual admiration, the picking up of vibrations from each other, going step by step until the ultimate declarations of physical and emotional attraction were confessed. He thought about the many more hours of emotional agony, thinking about her having a date with her husband, kissing him, holding him. He found himself jealous, which startled him, because he had no right to be. Then one day she confessed she too was in turmoil, she told him that while she was making love with her husband, she thought only of him, wishing it was Him making love to her, being inside of her. She said she had pretended it was him, in the darkness, and it had caused her to orgasm almost immediately. He too confessed to having made love to his own wife while pretending it was her. He added that it had only made his longing for her worse, having to pretend. He left out how guilty he had felt after making love to his wife, knowing he had fantasized about someone else. How rotten he had felt, yet at the same time, excited. Of feeling somehow closer to Her.
She called him on the phone one night as he sat alone in his living room and she sat alone in her bedroom. Again they discussed guilt, and not wanting to hurt their spouses. He stated bluntly that he loved his wife and could not think of a life without her. She too, stated deep affection for her husband and not wanting to leave him. Then they had declared over and over their affection for each other, the pain of being separated from one another, their mutual lust and longing. Their talk became erotic and she had masturbated for him while on the phone, as he talked about what he'd like to be doing to her, with her. She had climaxed for him, and afterwards, they talked for hours and hours.
As intelligent beings, they should have realized they were doomed. Deep down, they knew they were, but the affair had come this far now, the next step had to be consummation - real physical contact. The only other course was rejecting the whole notion, but now neither of them could think of what to call their experiences together so far, so without the benefit of a label, neither of them could go back. And neither of them wanted to. Hesitantly, guardedly, they crept inch by inch, to a place on the horizon they both knew existed without ever once speaking of it.
So here he was opening the door to suite 2123, drawing the curtains from the ceiling-to-floor windows which looked out over the night-lit city that twinkled like stars below him. The minibar was fully stocked, the glasses crystal, the lighting moody and indirect, the bed large.
He filled the ice bucket, made himself a bourbon on the rocks and sat down fully clothed on the edge of the bed and waited. He thought of his wife, at home, innocent. He thought of his deep love for her, his devotion to- he stopped there. Devotion? If he was so devoted what in god's name was he doing in the Plaza Hotel in suite 2123 waiting for a lover, a woman married to someone else, to meet him? He suddenly felt very tired. He was emotionally exhausted and weary of these same thoughts and arguements and doubts and guilt-trips and...
A timid knock at the door snapped him out of his logic-loop. Who was going to be on the other side of that door? His wife, his lover, her husband? He took a long drink from his glass, draining it, and set the glass on the table. He strode to the door. He unlocked it quickly and pulled it open and there she stood - Her.
His heart raced and pounded in his chest, he couldn't hold on to a coherent train of thought: she came, she risked, she dressed for this, she's wearing makeup, she's beautiful, I can't believe it, all ran though his mind like a torrent. This was IT. He guiltily felt like a groom on his wedding night. She was stunning, and standing there looking beautiful and terrified and happy. He inhaled her perfume and said, "I'm so glad you're here," and smiling, stepped back from the threshold, inviting her inside.
