Elaine listened for sounds of life from the sea of mostly empty cubicles and let out a sigh of relief when she heard the wobble of caster wheels from the janitorial cart. She'd waited long enough; it was time to leave.
As she reached for her overnight bag, her hand trembled, and she took several deep breaths while she waited for the elevator to take her to the ground floor and the city streets.
When she arrived at the cavernous hotel lobby, she ignored the registration desk.
The subtle lighting, slick marble on the floor, and ornate columns pointed in the direction of the elevator banks and a restroom, she hoped would be large and private enough to accommodate her transformation.
There, she reapplied her makeup with an overlay of darker shades and iridescent color, consistent with a photographed image of herself, shared previously.
She placed a net over shaggy hair and removed the long blonde wig from its zip lock bag.
As she looked into the mirror, she imagined the stage and its audience. She'd practiced this role in her head and took another deep breath. She told herself that once dressed for the part, there would be no exit stage left.
The large stalls and polished tile floors felt warm underfoot, as she undressed.
Her skirt, blouse, panty hose, and bra cushioned the toilet seat, as she pulled and rolled her stockings up and over her size 10 feet, red toenails, toe rings, ankle bracelet and eventually over her knee and up onto her thigh and clasp of the garter and bustier.
The long cashmere wrap was just enough to hide her sin and inconspicuously dark enough for the evening crowd she anticipated in the lobby.
On que, she heard the ping of her phone. She scrolled through the week-long back and forth chat between Playboy and Hot Wife. A bemused look appeared on her face.
"I am a hot wife now," she said to herself.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She thought about the "gentleman" and his "wife" waiting for her in room 222.
She watched her lips move and whispered, "Elaine, you are a fucking slut."
