He used to get lap dances from me; he went away to “get better”, and now he gets them, again.
I wasn’t the one having an affair. I didn’t know he was having an affair. I bought the hotel rooms, he paid me in cash.
He looked over his shoulder when we would go for 3 a.m walks, I thought he was being overly cautious. I chalked his nervousness up to PTSD. Not many men have killed other men, you know.
I saw him last night; he was sipping a salty, boozy drink, and I asked if he would like some quiet time.
“You mean, lap dances? Okay.”
I held the curtained door and he sat down, and extended his long legs.
“I have a confession”, he blurted.
“Okay.”
“I told her about you.”
“Okay.
“I didn’t tell her your name, or where you work.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Thank you.. Do you feel better?”
He rubbed his eyes, put his face in his hands, “So much better.” He blinked away tears and sniffed, stared past my face that was surely flickering in the light. That candle is nearly out of oil, I thought, and then I refocused my eyes on his face.
He spoke again, “Thank you, for ending it, when you did. You’re a good person.”
Silence. I put my hands on his shoulders.
“We can talk about this if you’d like, or you can take another sip of that drink, and we can change the mood of this room.”
He lifted the glass to gulp the liquid, reluctantly at first, and then I watched his throat move in waves as he finished the drink.
“Okay, just breathe…”
