It was good to see him again. Really, it was. He hadn’t actually changed a lot; I mean, not that much. A little, I guess, but I spotted him immediately. Almost, anyway. Just a couple minutes after he walked in. He did have some sort of exotic-type drink in his hands, a “Typhoon Betty” or something, so I suppose he must’ve been inside long enough to buy that, but I caught his eye a second later. He was nibbling on the cherry—I forget the name of those, what is it?—you know, the one from his glass, when we looked at each other. Anyway, we had one of those, like, “things” across the room. We did, honestly. The kind from a TV movie or something. He saw me. I’d already seen him, as I said. And we just stared at each other, must’ve been around four minutes at least. Music blaring. People up and moving around the place—you know what the lounge in a Holiday Inn can be like on a Wednesday—but we didn’t feel any of it. I didn’t, anyhow. It was suddenly just him and me. I was only in town for a day and a half, flying to Sacramento on Friday morning, early, so you know, not exactly expecting a blast from the past. And yet there he was. Cherry stem in his mouth and staring straight at me. It was obvious he didn’t recognize me outright, but I must’ve struck a chord or something, the angle of his body as he stood there, head cocked a little to one side, and that half smile. But I guess he couldn’t place me. Which is OK, it’d been a while, and I’m sure I looked different in a business suit. See, I work for a big pharmacy chain, in marketing, so I need to have “the look.” You know, keep the corporate thing going … so that was probably part of it.
As he talks to me, I realize pretty quick that this isn’t his first drink, not even his third, so no wonder he doesn’t remember me. The face or any of it. But he’s smiling throughout. Not a cheap, kind of irritating smile, but the real kind. A “smile” smile. Chatting me up about who I work for, when I graduated, brand of bra. You know, the usual. Not slurring the words yet, but a stumble or two. When he whispers my cup size back to me I’m suddenly a 63C … now, maybe he’s dyslexic, but I don’t think so. A simple mistake, I figure; it’s the drink talking. I understand this, so I just grin, grin back at him and answer dutifully on everything he asks. Wondering if something I say will set off a bell in his head, maybe a whistle. Just a flicker even, somewhere in those tired, distant eyes of his.
Sitting there on the bed of his junior suite, twenty minutes later, I’m still half hoping he’ll remember me. It’d make this a whole bunch easier. Well, not easier, I suppose, but more like a reunion than some other kind of thing. Doesn’t really matter, I guess, but it’d certainly be interesting. As close as he comes is that I remind him of someone. He says this, more to himself than anything, as he’s pulling off his socks. You know, the thin, stretchy kind. He tugs at one reinforced toe as he stares at my belly button, eyes traveling down as he mumbles a name. I ask who she is, the name, say that I won’t be offended. But he turns back to his heel and says that it’s nothing. No one. Some lady from when he was younger, an ex-wife when I press him. I promise myself right then that if he spots me, figures it out somehow, a gesture or the way I raise my eyebrows, even, anything, then I’ll let him go. But he doesn’t. So I don’t.
It’s funny, lying there, letting him fuck me like that. Well, maybe not funny, exactly, but different. He looks down from time to time, studying my mouth, but mostly he just grunts and sighs and pushes on. At one point, he asks me to turn over, to try it that way, but I resist and tell him I like looking at him, so eventually he closes his eyes and gets on with it. Near the end, his body tensing, I wonder if he used to fuck her like this, my mother. I saw them once, doing it, I mean, but I was really too young to recall much. And did he fuck that first woman he left us for this way? Or the second wife? Who knows? Not me, I was only six. I’m still wondering this as I pull my blazer back on, run a hand through my hair, and kiss his cheek. We lock eyes again, I give him a last chance, but nothing; he’s too busy with those socks of his. Oh, he does check the corridor for me, though. That was nice. Opens the door a few inches, a towel around his heavy waist, and then out I go.
I turn only once, when I reach the safety of the ice machine, but a nod is all we muster. No need for a hallway promise, an exchange of business cards, some half-forgotten e-mail address. No. Just a smile and that’s enough. It’s kind of far away, but I’d swear he opens his mouth again to speak. He stops, though, stops himself, probably catching another woman’s name on his tongue. My mom’s? Someone else’s? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, it was good to see him again. Really, it was.