It used to be anywhere, any spot she wanted. My apartment, her choice. She would point and in we’d go. Without speaking. Up to her. The control. But it’s different now, a tighter focus. Always the same. The kids’ room. A turquoise throw. Gift from Christmas. That’s the spot. Dangerous. But I lie there, waiting. Wait. Wait, I tell myself. Brooks Brothers shirt untucked and waiting. For her. And still she lingers. Getting close now. Time for Scouts to finish, wife’s late night at the office, people arriving back. Back home. Risky. For fifty dollars a week, a ring from the bellman. Push the envelope, she says. Count to twenty after the buzz. See if we can make it. Try to bargain, beg sometimes. She’s having none of it. Not today. An inch closer. And then I smell her again. Always smell her first. And so I wait. Wait, I tell myself. Go to church; I sit and wait. A business lunch; I wait. Through Peter Jennings and Friends and an infomercial I’ve learned to wait. For next Tuesday. Each Tuesday. So I can wait. Oh yes. Because she’s here. Almost ready. She hovers there, reading book titles off a little wicker shelf. She’s read that one. And that. And that one, too. When she was a babysitter. And as a child. I flame at this, not embarrassed but aware. Past embarrassed. Beyond it. Well beyond. But aware. Of everything. Me. Her. Our arrangement. Our ages. And lives. And wants. I know not to move, to fidget, to ask. Ask nothing, she says. Just wait. Wait, I tell myself. Study, yearn, desire. These are fine. Allowed. But not the rest. Not yet. No, I must wait. So I do. I wait. And wait. And wait. And then a burst, static. Loud. A sign from below. She smiles. I smile. Lips part. To greet. To welcome. To invite. I am hers …

The young woman leans into it as she pisses, grimacing, covering him. Carefully missing the rug. A two-fingered kiss and she is gone. Counting cash. He lies there, hearing the elevator approach but unable to move.

Layover