They met at a gala, the kind of affair that everyone attends and nobody loves attending, where the entrees are indistinguishable from those at any other large event: beef, chicken, salmon.  They were both seeing other people at the time, and they had — neither of them — any intention of going anywhere.  It was, as the song goes, just one of those things: their eyes met across a crowded room and both, without ever having spoken a word, both simply knew.

All evening they watched each other almost jealously: Where is she going? Who is that he’s laughing with?  On the dance floor, they literally bumped into each other; this caused them both to redden, a fact that the dim ballroom lighting mercifully did not disclose to anyone else, though each was fully aware of the other’s blush.  They experienced that sudden quickening of the pulse; the attuning of the senses to the breathing of the only other person in the room; the frisson of excitement that begins somewhere behind the eyes and ends, inevitably, between the hips: a cord that connects love and lust which, as it tightens, dissolves the distance between the two.  Every time they swung into view of each other, the cord pulled so violently that they didn’t know whether to turn away to stop it or try to maneuver their partners back around.  Once reseated they tried, with limited success, to avoid craning their necks and scanning the other tables.

As the cocktail hour drew to a close, she felt the hairs on her neck stiffen in anticipation when she saw him crossing the floor towards her.  He did not speak to her, however, and she began to feel disappointed, even sulky, when he struck up a conversation with someone else, standing nearby.  She felt his touch on her arm and it thrilled her; she flushed when she felt something drop into her hand held behind her back.  She turned and he was gone, and she slipped the room key into her purse.

It was after the entree, while her companion wandered off to survey the Viennese table and slap a few more backs, that she found herself by the elevators.  She looked nervously left and right, making sure she wasn’t seen by anyone she knew.  She slipped down the hall and found the door, opening it with her key, her excitement dripping from every pore.  She wasn’t sure whether it was the thrill of the forbidden that attracted her, or something still more primal, more compelling; she knew if she turned away now she would carry the regret forever; and that regret would grow, cancerous and metastasizing, until it poisoned everything in her staid, stable life.

No sooner had the door closed than she felt his lips on hers, his arms enveloping her and blocking out the world, his strong hands on her back. She felt her dress fall to the floor and stepped immediately out of it, moaning softly when his thumb hooked her panties and stripped them, too, from her body.  She pressed against him, naked and vulnerable but feeling only the safety of his embrace.

——

When he saw her, he knew.  Strangely (or perhaps not so strangely, at that) it had never crossed his mind, in all these years, to arrogate to himself this freedom, to act upon some socially inappropriate desire.  But when his eyes caught hers, across the room, above the intervening crowded dance floor, it was as if some switch flipped on in his brain: the question was not “if,” only “when.” The answer, too, was plain: Now; tonight.  He didn’t know how it would go: would this last a lifetime, somehow, or would it be only tonight? Or — unthinkable! — would she decline?  This last, he knew even without knowing her name, her voice, her scent, this was impossible.  The shared look was all he needed. He slipped away during the cocktail hour, while his wife of some years (and companion of as many more) was engaged in the kind of conversation that held no interest for him; he registered at the desk, asked for two keys, and had a chilled bottle sent to the room.  He grinned to himself when he imagined the mingling tastes of wine and sex on his tongue; and about the recreational uses of the hotel ice bucket.

Now he had to wait, and so he returned to the party and delivered the extra key in its Tyvek envelope.  From then on, he never looked her way when she was looking his; he resisted the urge to follow her every movement, but positioned himself at the table so he could easily enough keep track. When he saw her companion move off for dessert and a smoke, he rose himself and went, he said, to stretch his legs; he bypassed the main lobby and took the stairs, two at a time.  In the room he set the lighting, moved the wine, and sat down to wait.  It wouldn’t be long, he was sure.  And when he heard the click of the lock, he was across the room in two strides, enclosing her in his arms.

He felt alive, and twenty years younger.

——

The kiss seemed to last forever.  Looking back, neither of them could remember breaking the embrace, or moving away from the space by the door. This, they must have done, for the disarray of bed linens became the subject of some speculation, and much talk, among the housekeeping staff.

She remembered, always, that she had never until that moment felt as safe, as perfect, as she did when she found herself in his arms: naked, compromised, an object of scorn should her neighbors ever learn of it; she didn’t yet know his name, hadn’t ever heard his voice.  And yet she was home, and at home, in this room and in his arms.  This was, she knew, where she was meant to be.

Trust, we learn early on, must be earned: it is given neither freely, nor lightly, lest it be abused.  For most of us it is a hard lesson, the sole benefit of misjudgment and betrayal.  And once in our lives, if we are fortunate indeed, we find ourselves abandoning the lesson: we simply know.  And so here she was: her dress and brassiere on the floor, her evening bag on the chair, and this gentleman’s thumb in her panties, slipping them off her waist.  She hoped, irrationally, that he wouldn’t find her scent offensive.

She needn’t have worried: with his thumb in her waistband, his fingers brushed her through the thin fabric and soon slipped and slid against the cloth.  He pushed the lace aside with one finger and dipped it into her, effortlessly.  While he slipped the panties from her waist and dropped them to the floor, he contrived to switch hands, and brought the right to his own face — on the pretext of adjusting his glasses — while the left, instead, probed her sex.  He could not, for the life of him, remember such a scent, and such a wet welcome.  He slipped another finger inside, while his tongue and hers commingled, trying — it seemed — to find every identifiable feature.  A third minute engaged in the kiss, and a third finger.  Somewhere, in the back of his mind a dim recognition: they could not stay here forever: soon the people each came with would be looking for them.

At that moment, he pushed the thought away.  This was his time, his moment.  And this, he was sure of it, was the love of his life.

What, he wondered, is her name?

They stayed together on the bed while the world moved around them; within the room, time stood still.  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, while he watched her intently.  He was satisfied, content for the first time he could remember: he thought, there will never be another such perfect moment.  He opened his mouth to speak, but she put a finger across his lips, then rose up and kissed him longingly. Her hands found his face, and for another moment they seemed to melt together, to occupy the same space.

She stood and dressed, telling him with a look that no words were necessary — and that any sound would break the spell.  She slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.  He got up and dressed quickly, then slipped into the hallway after her.  Of course, she was long gone.