I passed the Hilton Garden Inn almost every day in my daily errands. I smiled every time. Why? Because I remembered.
I remembered afternoons so steamy I asked him to crank the air conditioning. Slipping off clothes as soon as it was possible. Sliding naked into the arms of my lover on a nondescript weekday.
Parking in the back of the lot and checking my lipstick in the compact mirror in the visor. Why I don’t know. It would disappear in an instant. Kissed away in the first few minutes at he pulled me in the door.
“Are you here, yet?” he’d text.
“Just pulled in.”
“Room number 252.”
“Got it,” I texted.
“Second floor,” he added.
“I’ll be right up.”
I ducked my head in the lobby and did the walk of shame past the front desk. I headed to the elevator banks my cheeks burning.
I’m sure they’ve seen this a thousand times before. I’m not the only woman cheating.
I didn’t need to worry. The receptionist didn’t say a thing.
The elevator slid open and I pressed the number two button while checking my purse for a comb, wipes, lipstick, and powder. All the essentials I would need to clean up later. I had been cheating enough to know that forgetting a comb or brush was a disaster for bed head.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said, smiling when he opened his door.
“God, yes.”
“I couldn’t wait.”
“I know.”
Our busy lives rescheduled to allow for these few hours together.
“How much time do you have?” I asked.
“I’ve got to leave by 4:45 pm. Traffic.”
“Ok. We have time…enough to make you sweat,” I added grinning.
“Oh, really?”
“Uh-huh. This will be so much fun,” I said, unbuttoning his classic oxford shirt.
“Let me touch you,” I demanded.
“Absolutely.”
Hotel afternoons in a crisp white bed after sizzling hot sex. Nothing better.
Lying next to his body, gently running my hands in his soft chest hair, I tried to remember every detail. His profile, strong and hawk-like. The curve of his lips. The greying of his temples. The softness of his hands.
When we finished, what would I recall?
I didn’t want to think of endings because we were at the beginning, yet all affairs had an expiration date. I had learned this the hard way. Now I vainly wanted to capture the moment like a Polaroid snapshot.
His hand cupping my face. Or the contrast of his skin against mine. His hands holding me down. My body spooned into his afterward.
“I wish we had more time,” I said.
“I know.”
He pulled his body away from mine at last.
“I need to clean up. Sorry.”
“I know,” I said, this time.
“Take your time, no rush,” he added.
The irony was that we didn’t have time. We carefully measured the minutes we had together. Just enough to keep us satiated and keep longing for the next meet up.
“I have to get home,” I said.
The weight in my chest just beginning. The cold reality was driving back to my “real” life. Those drives home were bittersweet. Full of remembered passion, and the pain of what was missing.
Why didn’t my husband desire me the way this man had?
“This was just what I needed,” I said, blinking back tears. My lover hadn’t noticed because I had turned away, looking into my bag for fresh lipstick.
“Me too,” he responded, from the bathroom.
We would never have everyday moments like this in real life. Watching each other get ready for a night out or a day of work. I wanted to see him comb his hair. Brush his teeth. Ridiculous stuff.
What was I thinking?
What I didn’t say was that I couldn’t bear my sexless marriage any longer. How could he? Why won’t your wife touch you? Comfort you? Desire you? She has you night after night, and she doesn’t appreciate it.
I didn’t understand my dead bedroom or his.
And still, it was just what I needed. Years after our affair, the memories lingered.
It’s too bad it didn’t last.
Would I still treasure it as much if it had?
Every time I drove past this hotel, I would remember this afternoon — my secret steamy liaison. I smiled alone in my car.
I could never forget.
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This post was previously published on Medium.com.
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