Lying in bed with Kevin, I’m playing a game of boredom chicken. I won’t reach for my phone until he does. I’m in the crook of his arm, looking at his out-of-focus face. Now that we’ve done this almost a dozen times, I didn’t even go through the fanfare of putting on contacts this morning. He’s looking away from me, sort of towards the window but not out it. It’s one of those big motel windows that takes up almost the whole wall, with thick curtains to block out the sunlight. Dan and I considered this Days Inn for a block at our wedding, but ultimately dismissed it for being depressing, and counter to the celebratory vibe we were going for.
Kevin probably isn’t even bored. I heard somewhere that because of some sort of evolutionary cave man thing, men are naturally capable of prolonged periods without thinking of anything in particular. It’s something about primitive hunters sitting still while waiting for the perfect hyena or whatever to waltz by. Meanwhile, I guess my ancestor was back in the cave, wondering if making wildebeest jerky smacks of desperation and trying on each of her loin cloths over and over to find the most flattering fit.
I move my fingers up his chest like I’m playing a scale on the piano – thumb, index, middle, then thumb crosses under and all five in a row. Just for something to do, and to see if it will jump-start him into talking to me or getting up. He puts his hand on top of mine and holds it to his chest. Probably I was annoying him, but he wants to have sex with me again at some point, so he can couch “stop it” in a tender gesture. I close my eyes and relax into his chest, trying to remember if the Vietnamese place I like is open on Tuesdays.
My eyes pop open when I hear what sounds like yelling. The walls in this place are thin. It seems like the sound came from the room next door, or across the hall. Somewhere close.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“That yelling. Did you hear it?”
“It was probably someone playing their TV too loud,” Kevin says.
“That didn’t sound like a show to me.”
“Think about those crime shows, with reenactments. Or shows with footage of police breaking into people’s houses.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
One of Dan and my bespoke wedding vows was that we wouldn’t spoil the endings of crime procedurals, even if we were 100% confident we knew who the killer was. A merciful secret. It makes sense to me why Dan likes those shows so much. He calls it a guilty pleasure, and within his narrow spectrum of transgressions, I suppose this qualifies as guilt. I love Dan’s strong moral compass. I’ve always seen ethical questions as things to ponder, to work out. But Dan has this fascinating, comforting, innate sense of right and wrong.. It’s funny, how you overweight certain traits and underweight others. When we got married, I really thought the fact that Dan was well-read was one of his main selling-points. A man with whom I could always discuss books! On one of our early dates, he arrived with an annotated copy of a book I’d told him was a favorite of mine. He’d underlined sections, made notes in the margins. Reading that book again, through his eyes, was one of my all-time favorite literary experiences. I still like this about him, but it’s not nearly as relevant to our daily lives as I had imagined.
Kevin gets up and walks to the bathroom, closes the door 95% of the way, but not completely, and I listen to him pee loudly. That’s judgmental; his pee probably isn’t any louder than anyone else’s. Not like it’s so loud they could hear it in the next room. Especially over raised voices. Was it a couple having a fight in there?
I reach for my phone. Ostensibly it’s always on and nearby in case there’s an Angela emergency. Also, I’m curious if anyone I care about liked my latest Insta post: Angela, Dan and me at a kid’s concert at the park, but the caption and the look on Angela’s face make it funny, so it’s not just vanity. Sometimes I think being a mom has made me softer. I cry at movies more often. My daughter has strengthened my empathy muscles; I’ve never been so attuned to another person’s emotional landscape. On the other hand, hearing crying multiple times a day has desensitized me. Sometimes I have to close the freezer on forbidden ice-cream, remove a screaming Angela from the park for lunch, shut the door when it really is bedtime. I’ve learned that her cries of protest don’t signify more than a redundant reminder that this little person does not want to be doing this right now.
Kevin flushes and returns to the bed. He has resting serial killer face. I should end it. I should end it with him today.
“Want to play a game?” I ask him.
“No,” he says. I know he means it, but eventually he says, “But I will, to make you happy.”
“Okay, here’s the game,” I say. “I’m going to give you two scenarios, and you say which one sounds safer.” He makes an ‘I understand’ sound, so I continue. “Choice one: we have sex in one of the single-stall bathrooms at the park.”
“What time is it?”
“Um, let’s say, like, 4:30pm on a Friday. Choice two: I give you a blow-job in your car. It's daytime, but it’s in the parking lot of this motel.”
“I guess the car,” he says. I wait for him to show his work, explain his reasoning, but he’s not that kind of conversationalist. Not that kind of person, I guess.
“Now, you give me one,” I say.
“Um. I can’t really think of one.”
“Okay, I’ll go again. What’s safer: riding in a private jet piloted by someone you know cheated on their SATs, or having surgery with a doctor you know hasn’t slept for two nights in a row.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“Appendix removal.”
“Do I know anything about the doctor’s record or malpractice history?”
“He’s average across every metric.”
“I could look up the mortality rates of that surgery, and compare that to the number of private plane crashes.”
“That sounds like a really fun way to play this game…” Sometimes I don’t understand why he even likes me. It seems like all of my core attributes sit one standard deviation below his idea of desirable. I guess it’s just my hot body.
I hear a loud thump from that other room, and then yelling again. It sounds like a woman’s voice saying stop.
“You hear that, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“Do you think everything’s okay in there?” I can hear it clearly now, the word “stop”. I picture some wiry, coked-up, mean-spirited man pushing a woman onto a bed. I can see the scene clearly in my mind’s eye, because I already know exactly what the room looks like. She’d be pressed into the same floral coverlet that I’m lying under, squirming under the guy’s weight.
Kevin furrows his brow. We listen for a moment. It sounds like someone is dragging furniture across the floor.
“We should do something,” I say.
“It’s not our business. Besides, if something is going on in there, it could be dangerous. Are you the person who should be intervening if there’s some sort of crime being committed?”
Kevin’s phone dings, and he moves to the side of the bed, reading the message with his back to me. Maybe it’s his wife. I’ve met Holly once, at a holiday party a few years ago. She’s pretty, polished, petite. Kevin probably thinks of me as “down to earth” or “low maintenance” in comparison.
Another loud sound from the room. She’s screaming now, the woman. I can’t make out any words. I feel my own heart start to race.
“Should we go over there?” I ask.
“Two scenarios, tell me what’s safer,” says Kevin. “One, you involve yourself in some domestic dispute at the Days Inn on Route 13. Two, you let me have a quick smoke while I go down on you.”
“I’m calling the front desk,” I say.
Kevin looks back at his phone. I wonder if he’s still on the text message, or if he’s just scrolling through news now.
The woman who answers the phone has a Southern accent.
“I’ve been hearing some sounds from another room on our floor,” I say, uncertainly. For some reason I’m self conscious about Kevin thinking I’m mis-characterizing the situation. “I think I heard someone screaming.”
“Which room is this?” she asks. I tell her my room number, and say that I don’t know which room the sounds are coming from.
“Alright,” she says, I’ll have someone come by and do a wellness check.” I’m immediately relieved that there are procedures in place for situations like this. A wellness check - what a comforting phrase. A check feels like a formality; the assumption is that you’ll find that all is well. Nothing urgent or scary.
Kevin has taken out his vape pen, and takes a long drag. I pick up my phone again. There’s a photo from daycare of Angela proudly presenting her stuffed penguin at show-and-tell. Dan helped her put Penguin in a little red bowtie this morning, which has held up remarkably well.
“I’m going to be thirty seven next month,” I say.
“Yeah?” says Kevin.
“Yeah. I think I read somewhere that women over 35 shouldn’t wear tank tops. So maybe I need to do a wardrobe overhaul. I don’t know.”
“You can wear whatever you want,” says Kevin. It feels like he’s disputing my premise without actually encouraging me.
“I dunno,” I say, devil’s advocating for something to do. “Maybe there’s just some things we’re too old to be doing.”
“Like getting drunk on a weeknight,” he says. He’s trying. Sort of.
“Right,” I say. “Maybe these are supposed to be our responsible years.”
“Holly has me taking vitamins.”
“Do you like them?”
“Can’t say I really care one way or the other.” His motto. He passes me the vape. “You want this?” Do I want this?
“I’m pretty sure this still kills you,” I say, exhaling a cool lung’s worth of smoke. I breathe in. I breathe out. I pretend I’m someone else. “This should probably be the last time we do this.”
“Okay,” he says. I don’t know why I thought he’d fight me.
“Quit while we’re ahead, right?”
“Sure.”
“I really did have fun ….with this.” I don’t know why I’m still talking. “My first illicit affair! I mean, my first affair of any kind. I mean, I don’t know if I’d even call this an affair. A fling, maybe. A series of trysts.”
“You love weird words,” he says, not without fondness.
I walk over to him, needlessly smooth his shirt. “I’ll wait twenty minutes then head out,” I say. This is how we do it, just in case. I’m feeling proud of myself. It could be that cheating is so morally reprehensible that none of your subsequent actions matter one way or the other, but ending things relatively quickly, not giving in to the inertia of continuing, feels like a small victory. I kiss him on the cheek, a comparatively chaste goodbye, and close the door gently behind him.
Putting my work clothes back on, I hear the woman in the other room again. It’s the sound of crying now, not screaming, but a kind of frantic, breathy crying. I call the front desk again. The woman tells me that they performed a wellness check, and no intervention is needed. I thank her and hang up. I listen to the woman cry. Why haven’t I heard the voice of anyone else in the room? What if she’s in there by herself, losing her mind? Another loud shriek. I tell myself that I’m going to go over there. Follow the sound to the right door, and at least knock. Ask if anyone in there needs help. I picture the door opening, and some stone-faced guy shoving a gun in my mouth. I think about Angela’s penguin – his jaunty bowtie, her toothy grin. The hotel already checked. Everything is probably fine.
I exit the room, look left, look right, and head down the hallway; the coast is clear. I hear another scream. Like this poor woman’s soul is leaving her body. I walk right up to the room the sound came from. I rest my hand on the doorknob. I listen to jagged breathing on the other side of the door. Maybe she just needs a tic-tac, a lifesaver, something sweet to busy her mouth and calm her mind.
My phone dings. It's a picture from Kevin, him sitting in his car with his hand jammed under the waistband of his boxers.
I kept thinking about you and what we just did and I had a problem.
I take a deep breath. I send back a naked selfie I took two weeks ago, yet to be deployed. I get a heart reaction, and a picture of his dick. What’s my big plan? Kick down the door of the room? Miss a half day of work waiting for police to come, then explain what the hell I was doing at a motel in the middle of the day? It’s probably some sort of savior complex to presume I could help, anyway.
I put my phone in my bag, and start walking towards the elevator. Once you’re already going in one direction, it takes so much energy to change course. And once you stop, it’s almost inconceivable that you’d have the energy to start again. I look at each door I pass, with no real idea what’s behind any of them. Maybe someone in one of those rooms needs help. Maybe a happily married couple is watching a crime procedural at top volume, not spoiling the ending because they love each other that much. I get to the elevator. I press the button: going down.
