I nodded. I didn’t roll my eyes. I opened my mouth, just slightly.
“Well in that case”—I bit down on his thumb—“let’s get you something to eat.”
* * *
—
It sounded like a come-on but he did order me a cheeseburger and fries, let me take a shower while we waited. I scrubbed my armpits, my feet. I thought about leaving not because I was afraid but because I was ashamed, the little-girl voice I’d used, the words but I’m hungry, even now, impossible not to cringe, remembering. But I didn’t. No, I turned the water off, put one of the bathrobes on, swiped under my eyes with two squares of toilet paper, my lipstick was a lost cause but the liner smudged across my lids looked plausibly smoky, left my dress hanging on a hook meant for towels.
When I came out of the bathroom the food had arrived and he was in the gray armchair, a glass in hand, an empty mini-bottle of scotch from the minibar next to him. I settled myself on the bed, one hand holding the room-service tray, one hand managing the edges of the bathrobe. I squirted ketchup on the burger. For a while we were silent. What I mean is we didn’t talk, and also I tried to chew with my mouth closed.
Then he said, “I want to know why you’re here.”
“Same reason you’re here,” I said.
“You don’t know why I’m here.”
“Then why don’t you tell me.”
“Take that bathrobe off and I’ll show you.”
I coughed into my burger. “Excuse me, too direct.”
“You’re in my hotel room, wearing my bathrobe, and you’re saying I’m being too direct.”
“Look, I’m still eating here.”
“Fair”—one hand going up in surrender—“fair.”
I put the burger down. “I’m going to use some toothpaste I saw in the bathroom,” I said. “You think about your answer.”
When I came out of the bathroom, he was standing in front of me, one hand braced against the interior of the door’s frame. Try not to think the word menacing. I took the glass of scotch from his other hand, nudged him back toward the gray armchair, nudged him and he went. In the bathroom the bathrobe had shifted, had slipped slightly so that it gaped away from my body when I leaned forward, facts I was not unaware of as he sat back down, as I stood over him.
“Why,” I said, sipping his scotch, “are you here.”
“I’m here,” he said. He closed his eyes. “I’m here because”—he smiled—“because every so often I need.” His hands clenching and unclenching, “Every so often it becomes important,” his hands under the bathrobe, moving up my thighs, “to be someone else,” his hands at my hips, pulling, “someone other than myself,” his eyes opening, the smile becoming a grin.
I stepped back and after a moment his grip loosened, his hands fell away. I handed him his glass of scotch. “Who do you want to be?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just, not myself.”
“Just not yourself.” I was sitting on the bed now, the burger, half-eaten, and fries, barely touched, on a tray next to me. “What if I helped you?”
“Helped me how?”
“Figure out who to be.”
“Put the tray on the ground.” I put the tray on the ground. “You want to help me figure out who to be.” I nodded. “You’d like that.” I nodded. “Say you’d like that.”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be someone,” he said. “And you tell me”—I nodded—“how much you like it.”
* * *
—
“Don’t ruin it.” I lowered my hands.
“I won’t,” he said. “I know,” he said. A pause, then: “Can I take off my tie?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because,” he said, his eyes wide, his eyebrows furrowed in a pantomime of sincerity, “because I want to make sure. I want to make sure you’re comfortable with this. I want to make sure you’re comfortable with everything I do.”
“Oh I hate this already.”
“So,” he said. He was blinking slowly. “Can I?”
“Oh I hate this.”
“Can I take off my tie?”
“Oh this is perfect.” He was already fussing with the knot.
“My tie,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “yes I am comfortable with you taking off your tie.”
“What about my shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, you can take off your shoes.”
His burgundy socks were bright against the white carpet. “I’m taking off my shirt,” he said.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Can I take off my shirt.”
“That was phrased as a question but actually I didn’t hear it as a question? The way the voice is supposed to lift? At the end? Of an interrogative? I didn’t actually hear that?”
“Can I,” he said, “are you comfortable with me taking off my shirt?”
I said, “Yes,” but his shirt was already off. His undershirt was white cotton, crew-necked. “If you leave it there on the floor,” I said, “it’s going to wrinkle.” He was standing at the foot of the bed.
“Can I take off my belt,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Can I take off my pants,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Can I kneel on the bed,” he said.
“Yes.” My hips were between his knees and my shoulders were between his hands and my robed back was against the duvet. I felt it with my fingers. Not polyester.
Maybe it was the not-polyester, which reminded me of the polyester duvet in my own hotel room. Maybe it was his bare knees squeezing my hips. “Wait,” I said, “can I—”
“No.”
“But you didn’t even hear—”
“I’m going to ask you a question.”
“Okay, but—”