Flight of Fancy

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She isn’t expecting me.


Or maybe she is. She tipped me with her room key last week. I told her right away that I wouldn’t use it; I’m in a relationship. (How hadn’t that come up before, in all our conversations?)


But I never actually gave it back to her. I know she noticed that. So, maybe. 


Tomorrow morning she’ll be gone before sunrise and I may never see her again.


Every day she’d walk from her office back to the hotel, stopping by the bar while I’m setting up, her skin glistening, her checks rosy. I don’t know what kind of work she does, but I do know - thanks to a spontaneous hug yesterday - that her skin smells fresh and earthy, like sunshine and sandalwood, at 5 pm.


I loiter around her room and see her packed suitcase in the corner. I wish I’d seen the place last week. I wondered how she made this room her home. No doubt she kept her book on the side table. (I’d asked her what she was reading; now I wish I remembered.) 


I look in the armoire, but it’s empty now. I imagine her dresses hanging, bras and panties tucked in the drawer. I know she has at least one black bra; I saw the strap peeking out once. Where did she toss the bra at the end of the day? 


What about those backseam pantyhose she was wearing the night she gave me her key? I regret not taking the opportunity to rip them off her. I wonder if that’s why she wore them. 


In the bathroom are a few remaining artifacts. I reach for the perfume, close my eyes, and breathe in the sandalwood. I think of yesterday’s hug and how the fragrance mixed with the sweet smell of her skin. Then I imagine that hug while both of us are naked. 


I notice her laptop charging. I wonder if she got online after she went back to her room at night. Did she chat with that guy she mentioned once? Did she FaceTime with him in bed? 


Then my eye catches a string of green Mardi Gras beads hanging from the armoire. How did she get those? I feel a little tug of jealousy at the idea that someone else saw her topless. 


I hear the buzz of the lock; the door opens. Our eyes lock immediately. She doesn’t look away as she drops her handbag on the floor and walks right to me. 


She sits on my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. I drink in her sunshine and sandalwood and we hold on for a moment. I can feel her breathing deeply; meanwhile, I’m trying very hard not to breathe at all.


She unwraps herself, leans back, and stares. For a second I expect to be scolded, but I know I’m off the hook when she puts her hand on my leg and runs it up my thigh.



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