Chapter 6: Waiting in the Dark
The walk back to the car is a slink through night air that has become hot and still. I slide into the driver’s seat andstare at the square of yellow light on the second floor. The cab light goes off as soon as I close the door.
My hand moves to my zipper, a dull and practiced motion. I work myself, staring at that window, thinking about her humped against her pillow. I think of the athletes, their easy laughter, and the woman with her phone, taking her pictures. Her own proof. The idea of them returning, of sharing this secret vigil, sends a faint, unwelcome stir through my blood.
It’s not enough. It could be, if I wanted it to be. But I don't think we have any tissue in the car. Not even napkins in the glove compartment.
Time starts to pass. My hand goes still. I zip up, the sound final in the quiet car. The window continues to glow, a blind eye glaring out at the parking lot, at anyone who might approach. No one does.
Finally something happens. The monotony breaks.
A car pulls up. I watch as a family of four piles out. They loudly unpack their luggage, ready to check into their room. They slam their doors in succession, a percussion of arrivals. A man’s tenor, grumbles about a missing suitcase while a teenager whines into the night air about needing the bathroom.
Their voices are loud. They are all preoccupied, too preoccupied to look around at the still parking stalls in the shadows. They don't see me. I zip up. It's not hard. I sink lower in my seat.
They've already checked in. I didn't see them pull into the lobby from here, but the dad has a key. They all turn toward the stairwell, and for a minute it's all San Bernardino again, and the family of German tourists. The memory of that other trip is suddenly fresh: an expensive hotel with big glass windows, and us fucking with the curtains pulled back, and this family of slack-jawed German tourists stumbling by mid-coitus, just standing there, watching.
My phone is dead.
I have no way to warn her that people are coming.
I can see it happening before it happens: the mom looking in and making a scene, pounding on the door to wake her up and demand she close the blinds. I can see the police pulling up, blue and red lights whirling on the top of their squad cars as they respond to a complaint from the dad. Probably the mom would make him call. Indecency. Lewd behavior. Whatever the charge might be, the cops would come and there would be a fuss, and I would have to explain to Arnold and Samantha why Cathy isn't there during the ceremony. Or maybe I would have to explain why I was bailing her out of jail instead of standing in at the ceremony.
But that doesn't happen. They don't go up the stairs towards the second floor. They go past the stairs, to the room under ours, arguing about the shower and the bed closest to the window. The dad opens the door and his family shuffles in, and then they're gone. I wonder if they're loud enough to wake Cathy up in the room above. From my blind in the car, I can hear only the silence of the deserted lot, and the faint metal clicking of their car cooling off.
My phone is still dead. Even if Cathy wakes up and decides to unlock the door, she has no way to send me a quick text to say so. This night only ends with me knocking on the door, like a cuck, begging her to let me back into our room so that I can get few hours of sleep. The thought causes me to stiffen a little in my jeans.
I slip my hand down my pants and feel myself. I give myself a squeeze and it feels good. I take a deep breath.
That's when I see him. The walker.
He's a shorter man, only a little taller than me. He's in simple gym clothes: dark, shiny shorts and a loose white t-shirt; he's wearing headphones, too. Earbuds. I can see the wires running down to a phone in his left pocket. The man's head is shaved. I think he's latino, but he has no tattoos that I can see, so I'm not sure.
He's just walking. I spot him coming around the far corner of the building, from the back end of the other side of the lot, away from the office, and my heart skips a little but. But he doesn't slow when he approaches the stairs. He just goes right on by, listening to whatever is playing in his ears. A podcast, maybe, or whatever playlist. It could be anything. He's out for a walk. It's late. But I'm not the only nocturnal human on the planet, tonight.
He strolls past the stairs and the room where the family went in earlier. Their lights are already off, curtains pulled tightly shut. The walker just keeps walking. He's gone without even a glance upward at the bright window up above.
I sit in the silence and the dark, heart rate still slightly elevated, hand still inside my jeans, motionless. It is always like this in the dark. Hours waiting for something to almost happen, and then nothing happens. That's how it is, in real life.
Dear Penthouse, I think. The other night something sexy almost happened.
Story of my life.
The minutes crawl by. A dull ache is forming behind my eyes. A moth throw itself at the orange halogen lamp at the end of the parking lot with a series of soft, pathetic ticks.
Then the walker reappears. The walker. He completes another circuit, emerging from the same shadowed corner by the dumpsters. His pace is steady, rhythmic. He’s in the zone, tuned to his headphones. Maybe he's counting his steps. That's a thing people do when they're dieting, right?
He vanishes around the front of the building again.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The tightness in my chest unwinds a fraction. Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen. It’s just a night, a bad night, in a string of them. I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, staring up at that unchanging yellow square. I should just knock. Wake her up. Maybe she wants an apology. I could still get some sleep before their ceremon
While I am thinking about it, a shape solidifies up above.
My breath catches, sharp and metallic in my throat. It’s him. The walker. He’s on the second-floor walkway now, and he's standing perfectly still at the railing.
He must have taken the stairs at the far end, which are hidden from my view.
He pulls one earbud out, letting it dangle against his chest.
He isn’t looking at the parking lot. He’s looking sideways, his body angled toward the source of the light. Toward our window. He takes one slow, deliberate step along the walkway. Then another. He’s moving with a new caution, the purposeful stride of his workout gone. He’s trying to see. The angle is wrong from where he stands; he can probably just see the edge of the bed, the glow of the television.
He takes another few steps, his movement quiet and deliberate. Now he’s directly in front of the window, close enough to touch the glass. He stops. His back is to me, a dark silhouette against the light. His head tilts. He’s seen her. I know he has. The full, naked view. My wife. The same view I had, that the athletes had, that the woman with her phone captured. I wonder if she's moved at all, or if she's still ass up.
He looks around, like he's nervous--a quick scan of the empty walkway, the still parking lot--and then his attention locks back on the window. His shoulders lose their tension.
My hand moves inside my jeans. I am hard now. The pressure is sudden and insistent. I watch him watch her; he has no idea I exist. He is her audience. I am theirs.
He doesn’t move. He is utterly absorbed. One hand drifts to his pocket, adjusts himself. I mimic the motion slowly, my thumb tracing the head of my cock through the fabric of my briefs. The sensation is secondary to the spectacle.
I don't know if this is what Cathy wanted, really. Someone to see. To be seen. But it's happening, over and over, and I'm letting it. I watch the absolute stillness of his voyeurism. My strokes become measured, rhythmic. I make myself slow down.
Somewhere else in the motel, a door slams. It's not loud but it sort of vibrates through the building, loud enough for both of us to feel it more than hear it.. The spell almost breaks. The walker’s head twitches. He doesn’t flee, but his posture tightens, ready to move. He looks toward the sound, then back at the window, torn. His hand drops from his pocket.
He lingers for five more seconds, then ten. I think maybe he'll stay after all. But then he takes a step back. Another. He replaces the earbud and walks away, his pace brisk now, not quite a run but a retreat. He disappears around the corner, in the direction of the athletes' room.
My hand doesn’t stop, but it continues as a slower massage. There is no hurry. No deadline. The window remains, a glowing stage after the audience has fled. The ache in my groin is a blunt, demanding thing. I close my eyes, but all I see is the negative imprint of that tableau: a dark man against light, watching Cathy.