The smell of ozone and synthetic lavender hangs in the conditioned air as I push open the door to the hotel room. My fingers tighten around the suitcase handle as I survey the space: a wide bed with white sheets, a desk, a television silently flickering the news. A business trip. Number four this month. My husband Markus at home, buried in his files and the quiet routine of our marriage.
I let myself fall onto the edge of the bed and close my eyes. The hum of the air conditioning is the only sound. And then my phone rings. A message from Jens: “Are you here yet? I’m in the bar. Come down if you like.”
Jens. The colleague from the branch office who followed me with his eyes at the last conference. Tonight I’m supposed to have dinner with him—business, of course. But there’s this tingle in my stomach that I don’t want to name.
I take off my jacket, glance in the mirror. My hair is tousled, my lipstick smeared. I take time to freshen up, apply a hint of perfume, choose the red dress that Markus never likes on me—too flashy, he says. Maybe that’s exactly why.
In the bar, Jens sits at a high table, a whiskey in front of him. He’s taller than I remember, broad shoulders under his shirt, which is open at the collar. When he sees me, a smile crosses his face. “There you are. I already ordered a martini for you. With an olive, right?”
I nod and sit down. The bar is almost empty, just an older couple in the corner. Candles flicker on the tables. Jens slides the glass toward me, his fingers briefly brushing mine. “Cheers,” he says. “To a successful conference.”
We talk about numbers and presentations, but his eyes keep wandering to my cleavage. I notice my breath getting shallower. After the second drink, he places a hand on my arm. “You look stunning tonight,” he says quietly. “I noticed at the last conference that there’s more between us than just collegiality.”
I swallow. “Jens… I’m married.”
“I know,” he says. “But this is a different city. No one will find out.” His hand moves higher, stroking my neck. I close my eyes, let it happen. Markus’s face briefly appears, but I push it aside. I want this. I want to feel desired.
We go to my room. The door clicks shut, and suddenly it’s just him and me. He presses me against the wall, his mouth on mine. His hands under my dress. I feel his erection through the fabric of his pants.
“I want you,” he whispers.
I lead him to the bed. We fall onto the sheets, tangled in each other. He kisses my neck, my breasts, while he unzips me. The dress slides off my shoulders. I feel his tongue on my skin, hot and demanding. His shirt lands on the floor; I stroke his chest, the muscles under my fingertips.
He pulls down my panties, spreads my legs. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs. I’m not ashamed. I want this. I want to feel him inside me.
He enters me, slowly, deliberately. A moan escapes me. He moves rhythmically, deeper with each thrust. I cling to his back, feeling the sweat on his skin. “Yes,” I breathe. “Right there.”
The rhythm quickens, my breath shallow. I feel the wave building, rising and rising until it crashes over me. I cry out as I come, my muscles tightening around him. He groans softly, and I feel him spill inside me.
We lie side by side, our bodies damp. I stare at the ceiling. The air conditioner hums. Slowly, a feeling of emptiness creeps up inside me.
He turns to me, brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Was that okay?” he asks.
I nod, but in my head there’s a buzzing that’s not from the air conditioner. Markus. How he sits at the breakfast table, the newspaper in front of him, pressing a kiss to my forehead. How he falls asleep on the couch in the evenings, his head in my lap. He never asked for much. Just me. And I just trampled that.
“I have to get up early tomorrow,” I say, turning onto my side. Jens understands. He dresses quietly, presses one more kiss to my shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and then the door clicks shut.
I lie alone in the dark. The smell of sex and lavender hangs in the room. My hand fumbles for the phone. I dial the familiar number. It rings three times, then her voice: “Müller residence, who’s speaking?” My mother. I swallow the tears. “Mom, it’s me. Can I come by tomorrow? I need to talk to you.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Of course, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
“No,” I whisper. “But it will be again.”
I hang up. The regret is there, bitter and heavy. But it also feels strangely right. As if I’m finally feeling again what I possess—and what I almost lost.
I get up, go to the bathroom, and run water into the tub. Steam rises, enveloping me. I see myself in the mirror, the red marks on my neck, the tousled hair. I’m a stranger to myself in this moment. I step into the hot water, let myself sink until only my head is above the surface. The warmth surrounds me, and I think of Markus. Of his hands massaging my back when I’m tired. Of his laugh when I tell a bad joke. Of the way he looks at me as if I’m the most precious thing in the world. Tears mix with the water.
After a while, I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and sit on the bed. I open the window to let out the smell of sex and lavender. The cool night air streams in. I take a deep breath. Then I reach for the phone again. This time, I dial Markus’s number. It rings for a long time. I’m about to hang up when he answers. “Hello? Honey, is everything okay? It’s late.” His voice is sleepy but worried.
I hesitate. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I miss you,” he says. “Come home soon.”
“I’m coming tomorrow,” I say. “Earlier than planned. The conference isn’t… that important.”
“That makes me happy,” he says. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper. And as I hang up, I know that tomorrow I’ll tell him everything. Not everything, but enough. That I crossed a line and that I want to come back. To him.
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