Unwed

I roll over and feel for his hand. He's asleep, so I tuck my hand into his and hold it for a moment, until he jerks in his sleep and rolls onto his stomach, pulling his arm under his body.

I remember when we used to fall asleep holding hands. The bed was smaller then, and we loved each other enough to tolerate touching in our sleep. Now I wake up and there is a wall of pillows between us. I can't help but take it personally.

I roll away from him, wrap my arms around a pillow, and think of you. I imagine your voice, and a warmth travels through me, starting in my chest and moving low into my belly. I can feel myself becoming turned on, feel the swelling of my labia. I close my eyes and luxuriate in the knowledge that you can make me feel this good, and you're not even here. I reach for my phone.

We met at work. Doesn't everyone in our situation meet at work? At first you were just the guy in the next office who was friendly and smiled at me when I arrived in the mornings. And then you were the guy who remembered my coffee order on Fridays. And then, you were the guy who listened to me when I was feeling stressed about the project I was working on, or frustrated with him at home. Him. My husband.

And you have a wife. I know this.

I know a lot about your wife. I know she goes out a lot with friends. I know she doesn't want children, suddenly, when you have all of these years, when you used to talk about baby names and family vacations to Disney when the kids were old enough to remember the trip. I know that she doesn't reply to texts. I know that it has been months since she touched you, since she looked you in the face, let alone looking in your eyes, and it has been even longer since you made love.

And you know a lot about my husband, more than a man I work with should ever know. You know that he hasn't really heard me say I'm not happy, even though I've been trying to get through to him for years. You know that he says things that make me wonder sometimes if he likes any woman, let alone me. You know that when we have sex, he does not look at me or say anything at all. I could be a hole in the wall that he is fucking, for all of the satisfaction I get, for all of the connection. I've been making myself come for longer than I can remember, furtively and in the shower, pressing my nipples into the cold tile wall.

We have shared these details a little at a time, like tiny gems we offer to each other. Look at this, we are saying, the gem sparkling in our outstretched hands. This is who I am. Do you see me?

We usually talk on the ledge on the edge of the courtyard at lunch. We drink coffee from red mugs we fill in the office kitchen, and speak in low voices. Sometimes we stop talking and simply sit together, sipping our coffee and feeling each other's presence.

I know people have noticed us. No one has said anything, but I know they have seen us together more often than they should. Soon there will be a joke about a "work wife" and casual mentions of your real wife and how pretty she is. I know she is pretty. There is a photo of her on your desk and I have stood in front of it, searching that photo for the mystery to me that is your marriage. Why doesn't she see you the way I do? What do you see in me that she doesn't have? I'm not jealous, so much as curious. Who is she? Who are you with her?

All of these months of collecting tiny gems led us one afternoon to a diner about half an hour out of town. We wanted to have coffee somewhere we could talk without being watched. You took my hand, touching me for the first time. My heart rate leapt, and my other hand started to shake.

"It's okay," you said to me. "It's okay. I'm only holding your hand."

On the drive home, I brought my hand to my face over and over to feel you. To recall your touch.

Now, I text you to see if we can meet. I think I'm ready. Your reply comes immediately.

I meet you at the front door of the motel room. It's a small place off the highway - a place where no one will recognize our cars in front of the room, a place where they still advertise cable TV as an amenity.

You turn the key in the door and we step into a dark, musty-smelling room. The air conditioner is running on high and the room is freezing. I walk over and turn it off. The sudden quiet is startling.

You're standing near the bed, still holding the key, looking down at the mustard yellow bedspread. I go to you and take your arm. I don't know how to begin.

"It's going to be alright," you say, peering at me in the dim light. You lean over and kiss me.

And the kiss feels... all wrong. It doesn't work. Our lips aren't matching, our breath is coming at the wrong time. It's as though we've never even met.

We move apart. I feel panic in my chest. What now? What do I do? I can see my car through the gap in the curtain and I think of escaping before I ruin my whole life for this thing. It's not even real.

You say my name. You take a step and stand before me. You take off your wedding ring and set it on the TV stand. You take my left hand and twist the ring from my finger, setting it next to yours. The rings shine in the light from the motel sign.

You hold my hands, looking at me closely. We are on a precipice. My heart beats a little faster.

"Let's do that again," you say, taking my face in your hands and kissing me.

This kiss is what I will always remember as our first. The first one that counts, anyway, because when your lips meet mine it is as though a deep thirst in me is being quenched. As though I am being shocked back into life. As though blood flows through me again.

Your hands on my cheek are so soft, so tender. No one has touched me like this for years, maybe ever in my life.

After all of this time, I might have expected our sex to be fast and passionate, filling a need we have both had for so long as quickly as we could. But instead of gorging on pleasure, we take our time. Slowly, you undress me. Slowly, I undress you. We look at each other, really look at each other. This is an act of bravery.

I have never been this aroused and we haven't yet touched each other's bodies. My nipples are hard and my neck warm. I can feel how wet I am for you. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Your cock is erect, shiny, dripping. We want this. I want you.

You sit down on the bed and beckon me to you. I straddle your strong thighs and wrap my arms around you. You smell of nervous sweat and musk. You bury your face in my neck and whisper my name. Oh, I want to keep this moment for myself forever.

I move against you. You groan and whisper to me. "Please," you say.

I guide you inside me and let my body relax, settling my weight onto your lap. You make tiny movements, rocking your pelvis just a little, and I tighten around you in response. We don't do more. We have time. We have time.

The mini-fridge begins to hum and we both open our eyes. I look around at this tawdry room and laugh. This situation seems ridiculous, suddenly.

You smile and kiss me again.

"It doesn't matter that we're here," you say. "This is real, what's happening." You've seen right through me.

I begin to move and you rock in time with me. I sigh and moan, small sounds of pleasure. You hold my back and rock your hips, and say my name over and over and over again. Your cock fills me; the borders between our bodies - where our bellies meet, where our legs touch - become hazy, indistinct.

When I come, I make a keening sound and grip your shoulders tightly, arching my back.

"You sound so fucking beautiful," you say to me.

When you come, you grunt softly and hold me close to you. You whisper into my ear, stroking my back.

"This is real," you say.

So this is how it can feel, I think, and my panting turns to quiet sobs.

"It's okay," you say. "Let it all out. It's okay," you say again. And out it comes, all of the tension and fear and shame of the last months, the last years, the months to come, pouring out of me. You just hold me and let it come.

The hum of the mini-fridge ceases, and the room is quiet again but for my little hiccups and sniffs. Eventually, even those stop.

At some point we will get under the rough, white sheets and feel each other's bodies, less tentative now, and we will abandon the tenderness of this first time together to satisfy our baser needs. We will sweat and taste each other and cry out like animals. In the moments after, we will call what we feel for each other love.

Lying in that motel room, I will think for a moment of our spouses waking up to empty beds. Then, I will roll over and feel for your hand, and you will hold mine while we fall asleep.

In the morning, we will move awkwardly around each other in the bathroom. We will talk quietly in the motel's coffee shop. There is still so much to know of each other. We will set our mugs down on the blue Formica table and hold hands as we think of what comes next.