Room 224

Alan stepped in front of the safety bar to hold the elevator door open after I exited. While I rocked my weight from one aching foot to the other, he carried on a one-sided dialogue as though he didn't notice my flamingo impersonation, or the door bucking his back.

"I think we should skip the first session tomorrow. Sleep in, or pack so we'll be ready for check-out. The agenda looks boring." I nodded; admiring his ability to ignore conditions that I suspected must be as painful for him as they were for me. When a buzzing alarm finally called him back inside the car, he waved and left me with a final comment. "Remember, I'm right above you if you need anything."

No doubt, Alan wanted his statement to reassure, but the reminder that I was alone and might need something accomplished the opposite. Thanks to his suggestion that something could go wrong, I strained muscles in my neck and eyes, trying simultaneously to watch my back and the doors on both sides of the long hall that led to my room. Apprehension crescendoed when it took three tries to make the key work in my door, and dissolved into freedom once I was inside, the second lock clinked a declaration of safety and privacy, and I remembered that Room 224 belonged to me for the night - only to me, to enjoy as I pleased. By default of death and gender (my intended roommate's grandmother died and the company sent Alan in her place), this room hosted a number of firsts for me: my first business trip, my first night away from my husband and son, and my first time having a bed (actually, two identical beds) to myself. I refuse to count the hospital bed when Jason was born since I had a roommate and nurses traipsing in and out all night. Lights, temperature, alarm clock, and television programs awaited my sole preferences. Fear would not ruin this for me.

I started by kicking off the shoes that had tortured me for the last fourteen hours, and then stripped my way across the room, shedding clothes and inhibitions without the slightest nag of guilt for leaving them where they landed. A naked rebel emerged, examined the bland, mauve-and-gray surroundings, and decided she would enjoy trashing the faux-pristine room. I had seen the truth on a news program; the matching bedspreads and lampshades covered traces of sperm and germs.

With no concern for nudity or utility costs, I turned the temperature knob on the heat/air unit to the coldest setting, pushed the highest fan button, and danced across my clothes, turning on every electrical device in the room. With equal (and familiar) disregard for my obvious pleasure, Ron's voice invaded my thoughts. How could anyone need six lights in one hotel room?

Why does anyone think a criticism doesn't annoy if it comes in the form of a question? As usual, I swallowed those words, but I did answer my husband's question. "Sometimes, it's okay to forget need and just give in to feeling pampered."

The response--even after feeling stupid for speaking aloud to someone who was not in the same state--made me drunk with freedom. I bounced from one bed to the other, scrolling channels with the remote. Cable offered more choices than I could deal with so I passed on television, settled on music, and thumbed through the books on the nightstand. Room service tempted, especially the drinks on the back. Goose bumps and the urge to crawl under the sperm-hiding blankets won that battle and stayed the regret of finally getting privacy after I had quit drinking.

Propped like a princess on four pillows, I clapped my hands on the odd chance that this fairytale evening might produce a servant with a drink. A knock on the door echoed the clap, almost making me believe I might actually have a fairy godmother, until I heard Alan's voice.

"You still up in there?"

"Kinda." I wrapped myself in the bedspread and mentally tracked the robe in my overnight bag, which, for reasons I could not recall, I had left under the bathroom sink.

"Come to the door. I have something for you."

Shrinking deeper into the spread, I pulled it off the mattress and wore it to the door, where the clink of the lock worked in reverse. Apprehension crept back in with the locks and hit full force when I opened the door. Jeans, a tee shirt, and bare feet removed ten years and most of the stuffiness of his suited appearance, making me wonder how many other attractive men I might have missed at work. He raised both hands, a bottle of wine in one and two glasses in the other.
Close the door and go to bed. No question mark. My voice.

"Want to come in?" The words that slipped out.

I shifted the bedspread to poke out an arm and accept the bottle he handed over as he walked past me. "Looks like you undressed in a hurry," he said, leaning over to pick up my jacket.

"Drop it. I'm being defiant."

He threw his head back and laughed, revealing another new secret: his hair actually moves.

"This room will be a total mess before I leave. In a little while, I am going to leave toothpaste in the skink. I might pee and forget to flush."

"Maybe you didn't need that bottle." He let the jacket fall back to the floor. "I can live without the toilet, but wouldn't mind witnessing the toothpaste blob. This is going to excite you?"

What was I thinking? I had to face this man at work. "Forgive me. I needed silliness to unwind after the conference. Was this the most boring day in your life, too?"

"Right up there with the worst of them. That's why I thought you might like a drink." He raised the glasses.

"I appreciate the offer but I don't drink." There, hard part said.

He put the glasses on the dresser and reached for the bottle. "You don't normally throw your clothes on the floor, either. You're being defiant."

"True." I handed my reservations over with the bottle.

He filled both glasses and we sat on the beds to drink, he on the still-made one, and I on the one whose spread I still wore. Halfway through the first glass, I stopped wondering why I hadn't gone to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas and robe. After the second, I fell back on the bed and complained that wine must be stronger than it had been when I drank every night.

"Could be," he said. I giggled because his voice tickled my ear. "You've lost your cover, my dear." His voice was in my ear this time, escorting me into that wonderful realm of inner heat shared with contradictory goose bumps and taut nipples. "Let me help."

Eyelids too heavy to lift, and not trusting what might come out if I tried to speak, I lay still and nodded. I needed help. He took my glass and placed it on the nightstand. I convinced myself that excitement and irregular breathing were causing the room to spin; keen senses proved I couldn't be drunk. I sensed his movements, heard the glass hit the wood, smelled the fabric softener in his shirt, and imagined the taste of his tongue in my mouth.

Still in a denied-drunk state of confidence, I knew he stood between the beds, staring at me. I sensed he would speak before he did.

"Will it upset your defiance if I turn off a few of these lights before I leave?" He sighed. "I'll get out of here and let you sleep."

My response surprised me more than his words had. "No."

"No, you don't want the lights off?"

"No, to both. I think." I slurred because my throat was dry, cursed myself for setting the fan on high. "My defiance will not suffer if you turn off the lights. And no, I don't want you to leave."

"Then, you'll have to put something on."

Thank God, he planned to turn off the lights. Otherwise, I would be too embarrassed to ever open my eyes again. My first chance to experience what I had seen in movies, read in books, and listened to on Mondays in the office - my first potential one-nighter tells me to put my clothes on? I could think of nothing more humiliating, at least not until the tears rolled down the sides of my face and plunked on the sheet like bowling balls on plywood. Maybe two glasses of wine was enough to do it these days. I hoped I was lucky enough to pass out soon.

He sighed again, this time maybe loud enough for people in surrounding rooms to hear. "Are you okay?"

"Drunk, naked in front of a co-worker, freezing, and too damned humiliated to move. Does that sound okay to you?"

"Let me get tissues," he offered.

I pulled the bedspread around my apparently repulsive body while he was gone. Maybe it wasn't me. He might not like women. Oh God, it might be even more humiliating to have missed something that important. When he returned with a handful of tissues and handed me one, I thanked him and blew my nose. What could it hurt? A honk would not make this night any worse.

"Do it," he said.

"What?"

"Toss the used tissue on the floor." I laughed, dropped the tissue, and reached for another. He fed me the stack he had in his hand and then went back for more, purposely dropping a couple before he got to me. We laughed until the tissues ran out.

The spinning settled while I learned to live with humiliation. He deserved a reprieve now that I knew I would survive. "Thanks for the wine and tissues."

"My pleasure." He ran a hand across the bed he had wrinkled and stopped mid-sweep. "What am I thinking?" He yanked the spread off the bed and dropped it on the floor. When I laughed, he went back for the blanket and top sheet. "This is actually quite fun," he said, watching the sheet parachute over the television. After it settled, he turned to face me. "Do I still get to watch you leave the toothpaste blob before I leave?"

"Maybe later." I adjusted my cover and held it closed with both hands. "I just thought of a great act of defiance." I stepped up on the bed and jumped; he did the same on the other bed.

"We're both crazy," he said.

I kicked my legs out and landed on my ass. "If you tell anybody at work about this, I'll have to kill you."

He smacked the ceiling with his palms. "Likewise."

After leaving toothpaste and shampoo blobs in the sink and on the counter, I walked him to the door. My "thank you" felt inadequate.

"For helping you destroy your room? I enjoyed it."

"For making the room the only thing I destroyed."