Fiction/Travel - Simple Glance

5 days and 4 mornings later, my curiousity has gotten the best of me. If I hadn't been looking across the street on my 1st morning here, I might've missed them entirely. But now, after several days of acclimating to the heat and humidity, I realize that I'm obsessed. I must know more.

On each of those mornings, at some time after 9:30 am andbefore 11 am, a ritual has taken place. It took several days before I really believed what I thought I was seeing.

But I know lust. And I know it well.

So on that first morning, when I saw the man and woman glance at each other, I almost thought nothing of it. But it was such an odd glance. Longer than normal, but shorter than two people who knew each other. Or so I surmised.

But the next morning, at around the same time, it happened again; they passed each other and gave just the barest looks of recognition. I watched as they crossed the street, then headed down the block, in the same direction.

It wasn't until the third morning, when it happened yet again, that I became suspicious, and had thoughts.

Why do they never say hi? Why do they cross from opposite sides of the street, and continue going in the same direction? What is it about that glance, that fascinates me so?

They don't acknowledge each other, but they do. They see each other, but are afraid to be seen with each other. But why are they afraid to...

And that's when I realize how dumb I've been.

So this morning, my eyes are peeled. They always come from the left of the motel, cross at the light, and continue down to the right. At 10:11, he shows up on my side of the street, and waits. By 10:25, it appears she's not going to show. She's usually here by now. He's looking at his watch, and keeps looking up towards from where she normally arrives.

They cross, and I see their hands briefly touch.

I toss down enough money for the bill and tip, and stroll out of the cafe; leisurely, but determined.

I have to see where they're going.

I follow from a distance, for about a block. I chuckle when she almost trips, because she was staring across the street at him.

I'm caught off-guard when she turns into a building. At first glance, it looks like a museum. But, no, it's a hotel.

A very swanky hotel.

I stop myself from following her inside. I slow my pace to a crawl, and wait for him to cross the street. He walks inside, very quickly. From behind, I watch as he crosses the lobby, into the elevator.

And then he's gone.

I watch the floor numbers climb on the display. It stops at 3rd floor, then comes back down. I ponder whether or not to indulge my voyeuristic tendencies (not an easy decision, by any means), and choose propriety over kinkiness.

I sit down in the chair in the lobby, and wait. For almost two hours, I try not to think about what they're doing; instead, I concentrate on why.

I'm fairly certain at least one of them is married or in a serious relationship. The shy glances, the elaborate set-up. Why do they cross the street like that? Is that a signal? A ritual? Part of a game?

And if one of them is seeing someone else, why not just end it? Why is it easier to cheat, then to commit? What's wrong with that relationship, that drives this man and woman together, like this?

And this is not the kind of hotel where one pays by the hour. Is one of them staying here? Are they in town for the week? Does one of them work here?

Why do they-?

The elevator 'dings', and she struts forth.

Holy , there's a woman who just got laid.

Her skirt is wrinkled, her hair is tussled, and her shirt isn't composed well. And she's glowing, sweet christ, is she glowing.

I watch her stride out of the hotel, and back onto the street.

Moments later, the elevator dings again. A weary, but sated gentleman follows. I get up, ready to follow. I walk quickly to catch up, and tap his shoulder.

He turns to me, a sad smile on his face.

"Yes?"

I want to ask so many questions. How. Why. When. Who. Why.

Why?

But the look that crosses his face, is one of guilt. Ah, the price of our conscience. I won't burden him. I just can't.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else." I say.

"Not a problem." He tips his hat. "Good day."

"Good day." I reply softly.

If I followed him, I could probably figure out who he is, and by extension, her. But, I leave them to their life. They don't need someone else judging them.

Let alone me.

-- The Bastard.