Our eyes measure the dark room for shapes. I don't need to see her body to know she's there. I feel the heat of her breath and hear the warmth of her words on my shoulder.
"What are you thinking?"
I peer into the darkness. Muffled city sounds seep through the window. I've made a habit of keeping it ajar each night, so I can fall asleep to the distant static of traffic and the creaking of the hotel. Normally, the thought of going home doesn't keep me up; yet, tonight, I can't help but wonder what she'd think of our tiny one-bedroom.
"You know what I'm thinking about," I whisper.
"And what is that?" she asks, her sweet voice barely audible.
I pull the sheets tight, suddenly feeling the chill in this place without her body beside me. Her name tastes heavy on my tongue. The foreign name of one I've grown too comfortable with.
"I'm thinking about how silly it is to keep pretending to be something we're not," I reply, not wanting to share my thoughts on the night she'll leave me.
A long sigh stirs the blankets. "I do miss you, you know? It's not the same without you in the bed. It's empty without you."
"I know it," I say, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"And I know it's not the same anymore . . . but this has to happen."
"But how can you leave?" I choke out.
"I'm not coming back."
"But . . . Why? Why do you have to go?"
"I'll have to see you soon anyway," she says in her best secret service voice.
"How long will it take?" I ask.
"A few days. Maybe a few weeks."
"And when will you be back?"
Her answer comes from the darkness. "Come with me."
"What?" I say, surprised by her determination.
"Come with me. It'll be fun."
"Fun? That's not what I had in mind."
"I know. And I'm sorry, but you know what you have to do."
"But you can't ask me to do that," I say.
"Why not?" she asks, serious.
"Because . . . I don't want to."
"Everybody needs to this, honey."
"No. Not me."
"You have to, darling," she says. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice."
"But won't my family notice? What am I supposed to tell them?"
"Tell them you're on a business trip. You always say you need to travel more. It's not a lie."
"But what about the rent? My job?"
"Pay the agent directly and take a leave of absence. Most people do it all the time."
"But what about you?"
"I'll take care of myself," she says.
"What should I bring?" I ask. "Should I pack underwear? How long does it take?"
"Don't worry about it."
"But do I need anything?"
"Only a backpack. You don't need any luggage."
"What about a toothbrush? Floss?"
"Don't worry about it, honey. I'll take care of you."
"When should I pick up the check?"
"Five hundred dollars will do it. You'll be back in three days."
"Will I see you before you leave?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I'll be telling you goodbye in the morning."
"When should I come to the room?"
"You don't need to."
"How will I know if you're here?"
"If you reach the outside world, you'll know . . . you'll be at home."
"Will we be able to call?"
"It'll be easy," she says. "Just don't wear your glasses when you find me."
"What am I supposed to do when I get there?"
"Do what you normally do. Look after yourself. Have fun."
"But I don't want to leave you," I say. "Not without saying goodbye. I'd like to say goodbye now."
"I know you would. So you need to wait. Don't forget, we are going to spend a night together very soon. Don't end up missing it."
"But what about you?" I ask. "Don't you think it will be more fun if I'm there?"
"Don't worry about me. Trust me . . . I know what I'm doing."
"What if something happens to you?"
"I won't let anything bad happen to me," she replies in her sweetest voice.
I don't say anything. I'm not sure I can. My body feels heavy, my arms stiff. The sadness is unbearable.
"Don't worry, honey. I'll see you very soon," she says.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"It's not a very long time for us, is it?"
"It doesn't matter," she says. "I'll see you again in this life. We can't be away from each other for too long. It's not what we do. It's not what this is."
I listen to her comforting voice as it soothes me to sleep, knowing that this is not our last night together. Not by a long shot.
I dream about being at home, alone.
When I wake up, it's dark again. I turn to look at her side of the bed, knowing she's not there. But I'll see her soon. I'll have breakfast with her, have our morning ritual, walk her to the bus station, and wave her goodbye with one of my favorite lines; I'll say a prayer for her and keep a light on at night. As all husbands do.
