N. Likes

A loss neither of us wanted, imposed from without.

I direct her from across a crowded hotel lobby, texting instructions while businessmen in khakis steal glances at what they can’t have.

You like me! You really like me!

A budget midtown hotel where you can rent a room by the hour — and where every detail reminds you that’s exactly what you’re doing.

The Historian sent me her journal entries from our weekend in Miami. The fucking was hot, but the feelings were hotter.

On the evolution of my fucking technique, from passive to aggressive — and the semicolons along the way.

She got a free vacation; I got her at a moment’s notice. It was a good deal for both of us.

A seedy, psychedelic hotel in Manhattan, perfect for a couple of hours.

At the Liberty Inn, everyone you pass in the hall knows exactly what you just did — and there’s something liberating about that.

Checking into an hourly hotel is a strange act of mutual acknowledgment.