Story by Joseph Grant


            
A Stranger Beckons


            
 

            
In the evenings they would go out to La
            Trattoria or some other expensive restaurant or bistro. They
            would then attend a performance of one of the top plays and then
            would casually walk Broadway arm-in-arm and talk about what they
            liked best about the play. Always after the play they would go
            to one of the more prestigious hotels and reserve a room. They
            would then lock the door behind them and make love. This would
            only happen when Paul Wilkins' wife was out of town, away on
            business.

            
It was a simple thing. Two are together
            and then they are not. It is a sad fact of life and occurs every
            day. Paul wanted to tell Katie, his young lover, at dinner but
            thought less of the idea as she seemed so happy. He did not want
            to run the risk of an embarrassing public display and thought
            best of it to wait until later. He was aware that a lot of couples
            did not last and was comforted by their being no different.

            
Paul looked around the room. The room is
            not the same room that they had last time, he notices and winces
            when she makes it known that she is not pleased. It is smaller
            by comparison than their last room and the wallpaper is faded
            and peeling in the corners. There is also a broken overhead circular
            fan that whirls around in a demented loop and then stops, begins
            again and then stops, begins again and then stops. This happens
            every ten seconds and is maddening. A lot of couples have broken
            up in that room and she and he are no different.

            
They had now been the most together and
            intimate as two can allow, but now silence and distance have
            come between them. The sweaty, salty after smell of sex lingers
            about the in the tiny, hot room. It is a smell brought on by
            desire, an animal musk. An essence that offends those whom aren't
            involved.

            
He gets out of bed and walks over to the
            balcony. He looks out over the lights of the city. He had to
            put space between them. The small room is stifling, he thinks.
            He has to get out of that room.

            
His body English is very clear to her.
            Come back to bed, she says. He turns but does not answer. Instead,
            he stares straight ahead, as if she is not with him. Instead
            of being next to her, he chooses alienation; quickly, most cruelly.

            
Won't you think about what I said, she
            asks. Won't you even consider it, she wonders aloud. He looks
            at her. After a long pause, he asks her why he should consider
            it. She wishes she hadn't come.

            
She feels the sick stickiness between her
            legs and the trail leading up to her stomach. What kind of love
            is this, she asks herself. She wishes he hadn't come.

            
Why should I consider it, he asks rhetorically.
            My parents weren't happy, neither were yours. Ask anybody, he
            says. No one is ever really happily married. It's a myth. People
            get married out of fear; fear that they'll be alone. Love isn't
            the reason, he says. Loneliness is the main reason. Loneliness
            kills.

            
What are you here for, she asks bitterly.
            I mean, what do you really want out of this relationship, she
            sighs. What?

            
You know what I want, he lies with a smile.
            I want you.

            
That's a lie, she laughs. It's crystal
            clear what you're here for, clear as a bell, she says and shakes
            her head. I know why you came here tonight and every night. Oh,
            you'll take me out to dinner, a nice fancy restaurant, maybe
            a nice play, but it's all for this, it all leads up to this,
            the main act.

            What are you talking about, he asks as he comes back into the
            room.

            
To get laid, that's what I'm talking about,
            she says. That's all this is, so you can get your nut off, a
            good time. Then you can go home to your nice little wife in the
            suburbs and all I'm left with is memories, not even good ones,
            she starts to cry. That's it, isn't it, her voice rises.

            
Lower your voice, he growls. That's not
            it. I came here to be with you because I care for you.

            
Yeah, you care, she mocks, quickly, most
            cruelly.

            
You didn't let me finish, he interjects.
            I came here because I wanted to be here. I wanted to be with
            you and feel something. Now this may hurt you to hear this, he
            cautions her and I am sincerely sorry if this does sweetheart,
            but I don't feel anything. I haven't felt anything for awhile
            now, I didn't want to tell you but you made me.

            
Get out. GET out. GET OUT, she screams.

            
All right, FINE, he relents, but I was
            just being honest with you. I have never lied to you, he says.
            I don't think I'm ready to take that big of a step with you that
            you want me to, I'm just not ready, financially or emotionally.
            Plus, my wife would absolutely clean up in the divorce, you can
            understand that, can't you? He walks over to her and lightly
            touches her shoulder.

            
She pulls away. You're a child, she sulks.
            You're another man who's just a little boy. I don't see what
            I saw in you in the first place, she cuts him. She watches him
            as he starts to gather his clothes. Don't be like this, he says,
            it'll get better, I promise.

            
When, she pouts. Go on, get out, she turns.
            She doesn't look up until she hears the door slam. She hears
            loud footsteps in the hallway walking from her. She knows he
            is gone. The night has not ended up like she had planned. Things
            have changed, the room too has changed.

            
She is disgusted by what they've done,
            but what she has allowed him to do to her, not just sexually
            but personally and emotionally. Guilt consumes her mind, her
            body. They didn't make love, they had sex. She remembers the
            days when love was dirty and sex was good. That has all changed
            now; only one does not fall into love anymore, one is lead blindly
            into the differing levels to the preface of sex.

            
It has been only seconds since he has left
            the room, but it weighs like hours on her mind. Each slow trenchant
            footstep, marching away from her and into the arms of the enemy,
            she tells herself. Well, she says, there is no one to blame but
            herself. She alone set her sights on a married man when all of
            her coworkers told her she was crazy. She has no one to blame
            for being alone, she tells herself. She told him to leave. She
            was alone at the start of this so-called relationship, only she
            didn't see it until now.

            
Thoughts stomp through her mind. Maybe
            she should have pulled out the diaphragm in the bathroom, he
            never would have noticed. If she got pregnant, he would have
            to marry her. But for now, she is without him, without his child;
            alone again, she smiles sadly. That is the way it has always
            been and the way it will probably always be, she sighs.

            
She remembers when she was younger. She
            was once in love with a Latino guy. They know how to treat women,
            she muses. She heard he was killed during the free elections.
            Sadness overwhelms her but then a smile arises from the gloom.
            She recalls how he wrote poems for her and took her dancing.
            They knew how to treat women, she repeats to herself.

            
Melancholy washes over her mind and for
            one quick moment, she plays with the idea of going to the balcony
            and joining her lost lover. But in a decisive move, she returns
            to the room and sits down at the desk to write a letter on the
            hotel stationery that she will mail to the wife of the man she
            thought would take her away from the sadness, but who instead,
            has multiplied and awakened her grief. As she begins to detail
            the affair, a smile starts to spread across her tear-streamed
            face.

            

            
©Joseph Grant 2008

            
Joseph Grant is originally
            from New York City. His short stories have been published in
            over 75 literary reviews and e-zines, such as Byline, New
            Authors Journal, Nite-Writer's International Literary Arts Journal,
            Howling Moon Press, Hack Writers, New Online Review, Literary
            Tonic, six sentences and most recently in NexGenPulp
            and two stories forthcoming in the UK literary review, Bottom
            of the World. He has written for The New York Bar Guide (as
            a reviewer) and in various newspaper articles that have appeared
            in The Pasadena Star, Whittier News and the San Gabriel
            Tribune. Joseph has published a work of verse, Indigo,
            with Alpha Beat Press and has completed his first novel. He currently
            resides in Los Angeles. NOTE: Six stories by Joseph Grant
            have been recently featured in 6S Volume 1, a collection of short
            stories by various writers available at Amazon.

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