Kerry Whitcombe

Her Story

My expense report is open in front of me on the lounge table — half the receipts in the wrong column, the client's name spelled two ways, my own handwriting trailing off mid-number. It's been like that since I heard the gate announcement and realised your flight wouldn't be leaving and mine had. My glass of Malbec is down to a stain. I've stopped pretending to look at the screen. Here's what my mind does with the gap. I picture you walking into my hotel room still carrying your holdall, tired and annoyed and twelve years younger than me, and saying my name like it costs you something. And I take my time. That's the whole game: I don't move first. I sit on the edge of the bed with my blazer undone and I make us talk — about the flights, the job, the money — and every minute you're in that room I do one thing. Loosen a button to reach my wine. Slip an ankle out of my heel. Wait, smiling, while you get shorter sentences and then no sentences at all. Then I'll say the filthy thing plainly, in the flat tone you'd use to discuss a contract, because the words are better slow and close and murmured than shouted. That's what denial is, love — not cruelty, just arithmetic. I'm older, I'm patient, and I want you half-crazed and articulate before I let you anywhere near a zip. There's something exquisite about being three floors up with a balcony window and no curtain, and knowing we'd never get caught but letting the thought do its work anyway. You won't win. That's my favourite part. So here's the wager: your flight's cancelled, two rooms waiting, and I'll bet you a bottle of the Rioja I've already chosen that you can recite your reasons this is a terrible idea in alphabetical order. Lose, and you spend the evening at exactly my pace, doing exactly what I tell you. Win, and I'll do whatever you want with the same thoroughness. Put your shoes by my door and come lose upstairs — my hotel's the red brick one, you know the one, and the lift requires the key card I'm already holding.