The hotel bar in Chicago was exactly the kind of place where business travelers went to forget they were alone. Peter had been coming here for fifteen years. He knew the bartender’s name, knew which stools had the best view. He didn’t know her. She appeared at nine-thirty, sliding onto the stool beside him. She was probably sixty-five, with the kind of elegance that came from decades of not giving a damn what anyone thought. Her dress was black, simple, expensive. Her hair was gray, worn long. You’re in my seat, Peter said. There are no assigned seats in hotel bars, she replied. Only people who think they own them. She extended her hand. Diana. And before you ask, no, I’m not here for the conference. I’m here because my husband died last year and I’m learning how to be alone in public places. The frankness of her admission stunned him. I’m sorry, he said. About your husband. Don’t be. He was ninety-two and he’d had a good run. I’m sixty-eight and I’m not done yet. She signaled the bartender, ordered a martini. You’re divorced. I can tell by the way you check your phone every ten minutes. Separated. Eight months. Same thing at this stage. I’m going to invite you to my room, Peter. I can tell you my room number is 1412. You can say yes or you can make an excuse. Peter said yes. Room 1412 was a suite. Diana poured them both whiskey. I should tell you something. I have rules. I keep my heels on. Always. The real reason isn’t what you think. It’s about power. When I was married, my second husband liked me small. Liked me barefoot and manageable. Heels made me taller than him, and he hated that. So I stopped wearing them. And I stopped feeling like myself. Now I wear them when I want to feel powerful. She kissed him then, and there was nothing tentative about it. Later, lying in the dark, Diana’s heels still on, Peter traced the line of her leg. You kept them on. I always do. Some things aren’t for you. Some things are just for me.
