He sat, waiting, in an uncomfortable chair by the elevators, pretending to read a newspaper. Was this the day he’d finally do it? There was honestly no reason not to have done it already, except he hated confrontation and knew that afterward there would be no going back. The toothpaste doesn’t fit back in the tube.

The elevator chimed loudly, and the doors opened. A teenager in an ugly eggplant vest with the hotel’s crest stepped out, carrying a basket of fruit, glasses, and a bottle of wine. He looked barely old enough to have passed his driver’s test, could probably use some gas money.

The boy rushed intently past his chair, and Thom frowned to himself. Now or never. How many weeks of Wednesdays and Fridays, waiting in hard backed chairs, putting off the inevitable. He coughed and stood up. The boy with the room service stopped and turned to him, “Can I help you, sir?”

He glanced at the kid’s nameplate. “Tell me, Brendon,” he started, “is that for room 1517?”.

“Um…”

“Yeah, OK. Why don’t you let me take that for you?”

“Look, mister, I shouldn’t…”

“Fifty bucks,” Thom replied, pulling a folded fifty dollar bill out of the front pocket of his faded jeans. “A little gas money, maybe a movie and some popcorn for your sweetheart, just to let me do this little delivery for you.”

“Um…OK”.

A minute later, Thom’s fist hung over the door to room 1517, blood pounding in ears. Last chance, no going back after this. He hesitated a moment and then swung his hand to the door.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice came from within.

“Room Service,” he said, trying to channel the voice of a pubescent teenagers. Luckily, nerves made his cracked on its own.

He heard the bolt withdraw and the chain slide back on the other side. The door cracked inward, and then she was there in the doorway, wearing a fuzzy white hotel robe, exposing the delicate curves of her chest, looking exactly as she did the day morning their wedding.

“Oh my God. Thom.” She stepped into the hallway, pulling the door behind her. It didn’t matter now, the hiding was over. “Oh my God. I…”

“Who is it,” a voice, a man’s voice, called from within, “where’s the damned wine?”

“Shut up!” she called back.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Thom was seething, furious. His face was hot, flush, his blood pressure had to sky-rocketing. He was enraged, and speechless.

Words. He needed words. They flew around in his head like twenty dollar bills in one of those lottery cages, but he couldn’t grab catch them. There was nothing to work with but anger. Giving up, he simply spat, “You fucking whore.”

“Thom, please,” she started, clutching the openness of the robe at her chest, “please, I’m…I’m sorry. This was a mistake, it doesn’t mean anything. Please.”

He wanted to hit her, hit something. Needed to pour the anguish, the rage, the hurt, so much hurt, into something else before it overcame him. He dropped the basket and the wine, vaguely heard something crack at his feet. His fists curled into balls at his side, white knuckled and shaking.

“Did it mean nothing last week, last month? Six months, Heather, just that I know about! Things that mean nothing don’t last half a year, or more, you conniving bitch!”

“Please. Thom.” Tears now, real ones, sliding down her cheeks, leaving shiny, wet trails in her foundation. “I just…ever since…I couldn’t get over it…and we were…different together. I needed to not think about it.”

His head hung and he exhaled. Deep down, he’d known the why of it already and that had made him wait, hoping she would get over it and that they could move on, forward together. That hope was gone now, as he knew it would be before he knocked on the door. The fury drained from him, though, pushed out by the knowledge that no matter how much this hurt him, she would always be broken, more alone. He turned his back to her and walked down the hall.

“Thom, wait,” she called, sobbing. “Thom. Thom! Thom!”

A hand shook his shoulder, “Thom. Thom?” He opened his eyes, but it wasn’t Heather. She was too thin. Pale in the dark moonlight. Her name, he knew her name.

“Ana?” he coughed.

“Good, you remember. You seemed to be having a rough dream. How do you feel?”

He cleared his throat. “Thirsty. And maybe hungry.”

“That is very good. I have soups. Chicken noodle or vegetable. Would you like to try one?”

“Water first. Then chicken.”

She nodded, filled a cup that was waiting on the table he had crawled to yesterday from the same sink, and held it to his mouth. “A few sips, slowly. Then I will get you soup. We have much to discuss.”