Four

The job has its perks.

My Uber driver, Greg, same guy I always use; familiarity is a big part of feeling safe in this business, drops me off in front of the Palmer House Hilton. My new client, Derek supposedly, is trying to impress me. He's spending money he doesn't have to so he can pretend that we're on a real date.

He's going to spend three-hundred fifty dollars on dinner and another four-fifty on a suite that we'll only use twenty-five square feet of. That's on top of my rate and hopefully a tip. He could have had me meet him at a motel for Little Ceasar's Pizza and as long as he had the envelope of cash I'd still fuck him. But he want's me to think he's something special.

It's only funny because I'm just hoping Jill, the bartender, doesn't say anything to let Derek know that I've been here before. Many many times before. I don't want him to know because men tend to tip better when they feel special.

I sent 'Derek' a selfie from the car so he'd know what to look for when I arrived. I work mostly off of word of mouth, surprisingly, so most of the guys don't even know what I look like when they make the appointment. Unsurprisingly he's waiting at the top of the stairs when I walk in the door. His stupid grin tells me this is going to be an easy night.

He's handsome enough, I don't think he keeps a gym membership, but he's not overweight and he has all his hair. If I had to guess I'd say forty-five years old. His suit says he's not broke, but this is probably an extravagance for him, not some same-old same-old routine. He looks like a nice guy doing something scary for the first time. These are the nights I enjoy the most.

At the top of the stairs I smile. Derek takes a breath as if getting ready to say something, then freezes up and just stares at me. I reach out and touch him on his elbow.

"Derek," I say, not as a question.

He nods.

"I'm Amanda, it's lovely to meet you. You look so dapper, I admit my heart is racing."

He blushes.

"My-- mine too," he stutters.

"Well, I'm so glad we're on the same page. I'd feel so vulnerable if I was the only one with butterflies."

He just stares. I'm going to have to lead this dance. It's okay, it’s not my first rodeo.

"I'm feeling flushed, would you mind leading me to the bar for a drink, so I can compose myself?"

He looks briefly confused, then, finally, regains his composure and nods aggressively.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course Amanda. Please, right this way. Follow me."

"Of course," I say. "You're in charge."

He's a sweet guy. He asks what I like and orders for me. He holds polite distance while clearly wanting to get closer. He asks if I've been here before, to which I lie. He avoids asking questions about my life and sticks to subjects like books and movies and plays. I think he'd probably rather talk about sports, but he steers clear assuming I wouldn't be interested.

Dinner is polite conversation and slightly closer body language. He brushes my fingers with his. His foot finds mine, briefly, under the table. He leans in a little closer and talks a little softer. He's being romantic, or at least his idea of what romantic should look like.

At dessert he orders Champaign.

"What are we celebrating?" I ask.

"It's our, um, mine-- my anniversary."

I glance at his finger. No ring. No tan line.

"Is it?" I ask.

He goes a little pale and I reach out to put my hand on his.

"It's okay," I say.

"She's not..."

I stumbled into trouble here. Sometimes I need to learn to shut the fuck up.

"I mean, we're divorced. Four years. She lives in LA now with her, I don't know what."

"I see,"

"I just-- I didn't want to-- I miss her."

"Of course," I say, half to him and half to myself.

"We always came here. Her and I. We came here on our anniversary every year. I don't know, I thought... It was stupid."

My fingers wrap around his and I pull his hand towards mine.

"Derek," he looks up at me. "It's the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

He looks down, a little shame on his brow. Then slowly, a half hearted smile climbs up his lips and he looks back into my eyes.

"Thank you," he says.

"What was her name?"

He looks down at the table, straightens the fork next to his plate and moves his napkin down to his lap.

"Sarah," he says.

"That's a beautiful name."

He smiles weakly, looks up into my eyes for just a second, then back down to his plate.

"Why don't you grab the check and we can head upstairs. I'm sure they'll send the Champaign to the room if you ask."

He looks up again and nods with that same eager energy from earlier, then raises an arm for the server.