Look Closer

She brought in a couple of beers and we drank them and talked on her bed. I was a few months away from college, and she told me she was saving up so she could afford college, too. We talked about music, about baseball, and one beer became another. That was one more beer than I’d ever drunk, but the buzz from my first sexual encounter was far more intoxication than any alcohol could provide.

We were standing by her dresser, looking at pictures of her from high school, when she looked at the clock on the wall. “My parents will be home in about an hour,” she said. “Sometimes they come home a little early.”

“So the birthday boy should probably get going,” I said.

“Mmm.” She put her hands on my chest. “You’re not a boy, you’re a man,” she said. “So how ’bout you fuck me one more time before you leave?”

She sure knew how to punch my buttons.

—

And now, here we are, nineteen years later. I am rapidly approaching that cliff. It’s not too late to turn back. That’s the beauty of it; until I jump, I can always change my mind.

My life has been okay. I put myself together and moved on. I can keep that life, nice and safe, more or less, boring and uneventful, maybe, but meaningful to me. As long as I can still teach, even if I’m run out of my law school by Dean Comstock—I can find some school, prestigious or not, it won’t matter as long as I can still teach and talk and write about the law.

If I take the plunge, I don’t know where I will land. It might be the biggest mistake of my life. It could well be the end of me.

43 Vicky

I sit in a high-back chair outside the ballroom at the Peninsula Hotel, where inside, eight hundred of the wealthiest people in Chicago mingle and play casino games to raise money for autism awareness. I am not dressed for a night like this and have no invitation, but I wore a dress, anyway, to generally fit in.

In my lap is my phone, in my ears, AirPods. I look like I’m watching something on my phone. I am not. The screen is blank. But the words from inside the Gold Coast Room come through the AirPods with decent clarity:

He:“So are you staying here tonight?”

She:“No. Are you?”

He:“I have a suite.”

She:“I see. And why are you telling me that?”

He:“Uh-oh. Am I being inappropriate?”

She:“You tell me. Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

He:“I’m not sure that’s wise.”

She:“Why not?”

He:“I might get my face slapped.”

A pause.

She:“You think I’d slap you in the face.”

He:“Or maybe my wife would, if she heard me.”

Well done. A test. He’s cautious. He dips his toe in and gives her openings but allows himself an easy retreat.

She:“Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing your wife’s not here tonight.”

—

Seventy-five minutes later. Quicker than I expected. The sound is better inside the hotel room than in the ballroom, far less noise and interference. His moaning is annoying but helpful.

He:“You are just . . . full of surprises.”

She:“Do you like that?”

He:“I like that . . . I like that a lot.”

She:“Does your wife do this for you, Paul?”

He:“My wife? Give me a break. She just lies there like a sack of potatoes. I have to check her for a pulse.”

They laugh.

—

Melanie comes down the stairs over an hour later, past midnight, wearing her dress from the night, a small jacket over her shoulders. I know Mel from our days in the “entertainment” business, which she has yet to leave, though she’s going to school for a degree in sociology. I hope she completes it and gets out of this business. You can tell yourself whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the nights, but you can’t survive this work for very long.

I hand her an envelope. She opens it and counts the money. “This is more than we discussed,” she says. “This is too much.”

“Consider it a bonus. You got some good stuff in there.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t like his wife, does he?”

She unpins the crystal brooch from her dress and hands it to me. “Pretty sure we captured the whole thing on here,” she says. “If you use it, you’ll black out my face?”

“Of course, Mel. And I don’t think it will ever come to that, anyway.”

I give her a hug and we say our goodbyes. “Get that degree,” I say to her. “Promise.”

“I promise. I’m about two semesters away.” She looks around and leans in to whisper in my ear. “So what did this guy do, anyway, to piss you off?”

44 Christian