real or not real?

Today I turned down all the lights, shut the buzzing air conditioning unit off, laid on the white duvet I once found comforting and safe. I used to love the empty promises and quiet monotony of hotel rooms: beige walls and confusing light switches, dry soap bars, and thin carpet. On the inside of the blackout curtains, I could have no idea where in the world I was.

It was once my favorite feeling. Long days, short nights, and seeing you in the dimly lit hotel bar, waiting for me.

I never knew where it’d be, or how often. The mystery made it fun. I’d come back from a panel or a signing or a photo op, dead tired, but I’d still slip on a little black dress and walk back downstairs. I’d check myself out in the elevator doors, make faces that warped back at me, until I’d hear the ding. My shoes would click and squeak across the tile floors. I’d scan the dark room, full of couches and club chairs and lit by fake tea light candles. If I was lucky, there’d be a fireplace or a live pianist. My eyes would slowly make their way to the bar, the leather stools standing tall.

And you would…be there.

So many nights, you were there.

A gin and tonic or glass of wine waiting for me. And a smile, of course.

Every nondescript hotel in every nondescript city felt a little more special when we were in it together, even if we never left the bar. I’d always lean onto the sticky countertop (it was always sticky, no matter how many stars the hotel had), and ask you what the funkiest tie you saw today was. All those men in suits, there was bound to be something unsavory wrapped around someone’s neck. One night, you described a Spongebob Squarepants-surrealist one, all blue and orange and yellow, so short it only hit the middle button of the wearer’s crisp, white dress shirt. Sometimes we’d see them at the bar, too. We were chronic people-watchers, you and I.

You always wore the same handful of ties, I kept track. One purple pinstripe, one black and white marble, one plain navy blue, and my favorite: a plaid one made of the loveliest shades of green. If I stared at you long enough–or if I had enough to drink–I could count all the colors from the tie in your eyes.

The bartender would signal their last call, and you’d turn to me and ask, “Your room or mine?” Whoever had the better view was always the answer. Our reflections in the pitch black turned to a scenic mountain view come morning, glittering city lights turned to shiny skyscrapers, or street lights along a boardwalk turned to a waterfront landscape. I’d seen them all with you.

Whenever you weren’t there, I’d strike up a conversation with the closest bartender for a drink or two, then return to my room. I wouldn’t feel disheartened. I wouldn’t even miss you. This was our game.

But then weeks passed. Then months. And you…weren’t there. You were never there.

I wondered. What could keep you from me? From this? I turned our conversations over and over in my head, searching for a reason. If you told me you were changing jobs or moving away. If there was someone else. Rarely did we talk about our lives outside of the hotel walls, though, so I was left with pondering every possibility.

I could live with any answer. It might have hurt, but anything would be better than this not knowing. All I have are questions, musings, frustrations. Nobody gives me the thrill you did. Challenged me, let me challenge them back.

I’ve tried to stop looking for you. When I check into hotels, I’ve stopped my eyes from sweeping the lobby and hoping to catch a glimpse of even the back of your head. To hear your laugh down a hallway. At least, I’ve stopped doing it every time. I’m getting better about letting you go, but you’re still there in the back of my mind.

It helped to stop dressing up, to stop perching myself on a bar stool and pretending like I wasn’t looking for you. There was always some other guy in a suit who wanted to take me up to his room, thinking I’d be fun for a night. I didn’t want them. I don’t want them.

Now, I lie awake, the TV playing the local news at a low hum, until my eyes grow heavy. Then I sleep, always restless on the scratchy sheets I once found promising, and I wake to do the whole thing over again.

I’m not sure what I miss most. Your laugh, the secrecy, or the way you somehow made mundane feel hopeful and fun. I selfishly loved how you could turn me into a woman more bold and forward than I am. I’ve written her into my stories now, instead of living her for a night or two. My readers love her. She feels so far away these days, just a woman on a page, barely still a version of myself I made up. That’s how I have to think of you now, too.

And sometimes I wonder if you were ever real at all or just someone I conjured up to make my life more interesting.