The Light Under His Door

the conference puts everyone on the same floor, which is a kind of cruelty nobody planned. bar closed at one. we were the last two and he walked me to my door even though his is four down, and there was that beat where neither of us said goodnight, and then we both did, twice, the way you do when you don't mean it.

i'm inside now with my back against the door and i can see the strip of light under his, still on. he's awake too. i know it the way you know a thing in your body before your head agrees.

there's a text half-typed. just a question mark, basically. nothing that couldn't be a joke if it had to be. my thumb's been over it for ten minutes.

what's unsettling isn't him. it's the woman standing in this dark hotel room who is very calmly running the numbers — the early flight, the ring i twisted off and zipped into the front pocket without quite letting myself notice, who'd know, who wouldn't. she's so reasonable. she's me with all the safeties off and she's the one holding the phone.

i didn't send it. i set the phone face-down on the desk and got into the cold half of the bed. the light's still on under his door. i keep looking at the gap like it's going to go dark and tell me what i didn't do.