We meet every Wednesday night in hotel room #364. We stay there until morning–kissing, laughing, healing one another. We’re both broken people, him with his alcoholic family, me with my murdered one. I don’t know who he is; I don’t ask for his name. I don’t question him. I only love how he makes me feel, how he makes me forget just how alone I am in this world, and for now, that’s all I need.
We have three rules:
1) No sex.
2) No personal questions.
3) No leaving the hotel room until morning. Not ever.
For four months, I followed the rules. I came to the hotel room every Wednesday night, and his presence never failed to cure me. I was happy with him. But one night, he doesn’t show. So when I hear a scream down the hallway, I can’t help myself. I break rule number three. I leave the room.