The Affair

There's a knock at the door. A beep. The click of an internal mechanism.

She enters the room and closes the door behind and stands in the entry. Her profile shown laterally in the mirror's reflection. The keycard sideways between her fingers like a playing card.

He says, You came.

She says, I came.

I didn't know if you were going to or not.

You seemed awfully certain a few minutes ago.

I wasn't.

I want you to know this isn't worth my marriage. If you're that type of guy.

I'm happily married.

Happily.

Yes.

Happily being a relative word.

Happily being an objective word.

Really? I'm not really sure how I feel about a happily married man giving me the keycard to his hotel room over drinks.

Are you happily married?

Yes I am.

I'm not sure how I feel about a happily married woman standing in my room with a keycard I gave her over drinks.

She smiles at that.

She says, Do you have kids?

He says, Two. You?

None.

Did you want them?

Yes.

You or him?

That's a highly personal question.

This is a highly personal situation.

She sets her clutch on the table and sits. Crosses one leg over the other. The dress pulling to reveal short black heels that don't taper at the base. The skin of her ankle. Painted toenails.

She says, I've never done this before.

He says, I haven't either.

I find that hard to believe.

Why?

This feels practiced.

Does it? I forgot the strawberries and champagne.

And the wine. And room service in general.

I never order room service.

I always order room service. My company pays for it.

That's the difference. Do you want room service?

She looks at him. His hands resting in his lap. Fingers interlaced. Thick fingers with thick knuckles. A watch. Collar unbuttoned. Brown shoes. Blue Superman socks.

She says, Will your company pay for it?

He says, No.

Then no.