Flight of Fancy
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...