race. And humanity is a messy business, where knowing what is right doesn’t necessarily preclude you from doing what is wrong.
I showered. Donned a tight black pencil skirt, knee-high black leather boots and, without even thinking about it, my sister’s preferred fuchsia top. I made my face up, left my brown hair down and added a simple gold band to my left ring finger. I’d learned years ago that was the key to success; to appear as married as they were. It reduced their fear of future entanglements while adding to their sense of mutual culpability. You were no better than them, hence a desirable target.
Ten minutes till midnight. I grabbed the plastic kit I kept hidden away in the back of the lower bathroom drawer. Tucked it in my gray bag. Then I was out the door, driving toward Boston’s Logan Airport and my destination of choice, the Hyatt Boston Harbor.
• • •
A FTER MIDNIGHT ON A M ONDAY NIGHT , most bars, even in a major city, were quieting down. But airport hotels exist in a timeless vacuum. People getting up, people going to bed, on so many different schedules, the actual hour ceases to have meaning. You can always find people drinking at an airport hotel’s bar.
I took a table near the windows overlooking the Hyatt’s fabled view of Boston’s skyline. Dark harbor waters below, glittering city lights above. I ordered a Cosmopolitan, alcoholically aggressive, while still being appropriately feminine. Then I went to work.
I counted eight other occupants in the bar. One couple, six individuals. Of the individuals, two were older gentlemen, one clearly European, lost deep in his single malt, the other Asian. I discounted them as a reflection of my own lack of interest, not necessarily theirs.
Two guys at the end of the bar held my attention the longest. Both in blue suits. Clean-cut, short dark hair. Midwestern, I judged. On the younger side of middle-aged. The one to the right was larger, the dominant male, clearly at ease with himself and his surroundings. Sales would be my guess. The kind of man accustomed to life on the road, outgoing and energetic enough not to mind a new city every day, savvy enough to have developed a system for maximizing travel’s upside while minimizing its inconveniences.
I sipped my fruity martini, feeling the hard rim of the glass with my teeth, my tongue. Letting my gaze find his back, linger.
Fifteen minutes later he appeared tableside, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Alcohol? Anticipation? Did it matter?
I watched his gaze go to my left hand, note the ring that was a match for his own. Two consenting adults, same short-term needs, identical long-term constraints. His smile grew. He offered me a drink. I replied with an invitation to the vacant chair across from me.
He returned to the bar, ostensibly to order the drinks, while most likely informing his travel companion not to wait up. The traveling companion grinned, made his exit.
Then Salesman was back, introducing himself as Neil, admiring my sweater—nice color!—and we were off. Questions for me, questions for him. All easily answered, most of it probably lies. But kindly meant and prettily spoken. Just going through the motions, a third Cosmo for me, a fourth, fifth, sixth? whiskey for him. Then that delicate moment, as I watched him lick his lower lip, contemplate his next move.
I didn’t like to make it too easy for them. Didn’t resort to fawning giggles or suggestive touches. I had my own standards. The man had to come to me. He had to work for it.
Then finally, as worthy of a professional salesman, he made the ask. Would I like to retire someplace quieter? Maybe continue our conversation more privately?
In answer, I picked up my purse, rose to standing. His smile growing, as he realized it honestly was happening, the strange woman in the bar was really saying yes. And by God she was as good-looking standing up as sitting down and please oh please oh please let her be wearing a black thong
I showered. Donned a tight black pencil skirt, knee-high black leather boots and, without even thinking about it, my sister’s preferred fuchsia top. I made my face up, left my brown hair down and added a simple gold band to my left ring finger. I’d learned years ago that was the key to success; to appear as married as they were. It reduced their fear of future entanglements while adding to their sense of mutual culpability. You were no better than them, hence a desirable target.
Ten minutes till midnight. I grabbed the plastic kit I kept hidden away in the back of the lower bathroom drawer. Tucked it in my gray bag. Then I was out the door, driving toward Boston’s Logan Airport and my destination of choice, the Hyatt Boston Harbor.
• • •
A FTER MIDNIGHT ON A M ONDAY NIGHT , most bars, even in a major city, were quieting down. But airport hotels exist in a timeless vacuum. People getting up, people going to bed, on so many different schedules, the actual hour ceases to have meaning. You can always find people drinking at an airport hotel’s bar.
I took a table near the windows overlooking the Hyatt’s fabled view of Boston’s skyline. Dark harbor waters below, glittering city lights above. I ordered a Cosmopolitan, alcoholically aggressive, while still being appropriately feminine. Then I went to work.
I counted eight other occupants in the bar. One couple, six individuals. Of the individuals, two were older gentlemen, one clearly European, lost deep in his single malt, the other Asian. I discounted them as a reflection of my own lack of interest, not necessarily theirs.
Two guys at the end of the bar held my attention the longest. Both in blue suits. Clean-cut, short dark hair. Midwestern, I judged. On the younger side of middle-aged. The one to the right was larger, the dominant male, clearly at ease with himself and his surroundings. Sales would be my guess. The kind of man accustomed to life on the road, outgoing and energetic enough not to mind a new city every day, savvy enough to have developed a system for maximizing travel’s upside while minimizing its inconveniences.
I sipped my fruity martini, feeling the hard rim of the glass with my teeth, my tongue. Letting my gaze find his back, linger.
Fifteen minutes later he appeared tableside, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Alcohol? Anticipation? Did it matter?
I watched his gaze go to my left hand, note the ring that was a match for his own. Two consenting adults, same short-term needs, identical long-term constraints. His smile grew. He offered me a drink. I replied with an invitation to the vacant chair across from me.
He returned to the bar, ostensibly to order the drinks, while most likely informing his travel companion not to wait up. The traveling companion grinned, made his exit.
Then Salesman was back, introducing himself as Neil, admiring my sweater—nice color!—and we were off. Questions for me, questions for him. All easily answered, most of it probably lies. But kindly meant and prettily spoken. Just going through the motions, a third Cosmo for me, a fourth, fifth, sixth? whiskey for him. Then that delicate moment, as I watched him lick his lower lip, contemplate his next move.
I didn’t like to make it too easy for them. Didn’t resort to fawning giggles or suggestive touches. I had my own standards. The man had to come to me. He had to work for it.
Then finally, as worthy of a professional salesman, he made the ask. Would I like to retire someplace quieter? Maybe continue our conversation more privately?
In answer, I picked up my purse, rose to standing. His smile growing, as he realized it honestly was happening, the strange woman in the bar was really saying yes. And by God she was as good-looking standing up as sitting down and please oh please oh please let her be wearing a black thong
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