The Other Woman

She calls him 'Colonel' when he comes to her. It's one of the few requests he's ever explicitly made of her.

And he's gentle.

Most of her customers aren't.

This one is.

And maybe it's the gentleness, the substitution for someone else instead of the need to be screwed, but she's drawn to him like a moth to light - and dizzy in his presence.

He pays for the whole night, a nice room in a hotel, even dinner and wine. But she knows it isn't her he's seeking as he pulls her into the room and strips her of her clothing. It isn't her he wants as he lays her down on the bed.

But she's paid to do this - to be their fantasy, whatever it is. She's been paid to do this since she left home, dreaming of a better life away from the farm.

Dreams too big, reality too small, and pride too stiff to admit she was ever wrong.

And so, the men.

He's familiar by now, a weekly regular these last six months. And this is his night. She gets paid for the whole night even when he doesn't turn up - and sometimes he doesn't. The hotel room is booked, the cheque for her services is in an envelope at the front desk, and she collects it as she arrives every week, ignoring the knowing glances of the staff, and goes up to wait for him in the room.

Sometimes they go out to dinner, sometimes they don't. But whether they do or don't, she always wonders at the sadness in his dark eyes, or the lines of pain that radiate from his mouth. The dimmed lights gleam silvery in his hair as he pushes her down on the mattress and makes love to her.

This is not about sex. Her job is about sex. This customer is not.

He never asks for anything more than intercourse. There are no hand jobs or blowjobs. He doesn't have any particular fetishes, only asks that the lights be dimmed and that she calls him 'Colonel'.

They talk of small things during dinner and after sex. Neither of them are given to talking much. She has little to say that might interest him; he has little to say because he values his privacy.

If nothing else, he's a man with secrets.

He pants himself hoarse in her arms, and if he calls for the woman he wants in the middle of sex, she's too far gone to know or care.

Well, maybe she cares. Just a little.

It's hard not to care with this man.

Perhaps it's just because she's starved for want of a little tenderness. Starved for someone to care about her - and he does, in his own way. And she envies the woman she can see in his eyes; because this man's loyalty and love are so strong he'd die for this woman. Even a washed-out sex worker can see that.

There are nights when he leaves once the act is done, and nights where he stays until she's fallen asleep. But she always wakes up alone. He never stays until morning.

Tonight, he makes no move to leave the bed and she takes the opportunity to touch him, daring a lover's tender caress instead of the prostitute's deliberate teasing. Her fingers smooth over old scars in his flesh, scars that look ugly in the semi-dark and must be horrific by broad daylight. He's old and experienced, he's seen a lot of action and he carries the scars on his body and the wounds on his soul. And tonight, he lets her touch him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He treats her as if she isn't paid. As if it's a privilege that she lets him into her bed. "Although you don't have to..."

"I prefer it." He cuts her off, turning his head to look at her in the darkness. What or whom he sees, she doesn't know. She hopes it's her, but she doubts it. "It's only polite."

They never dance around what she is or what she does for him. But it's not something shameful. It's just a fact of life. "I get paid to do this."

"And that means I shouldn't be grateful?" His voice is soft, slightly rough.

"No. Just that it's...unusual."

His mouth quirks, slightly sad. "Unusual is my way of life, now."

She wants to ask about his life, to know more about this man who needs what she offers but still has the time and space to behave as if she's a person and not a thing. He's a walking contradiction and she always loved a puzzle.

She knows better than to ask, so she turns so she's on her stomach, able to look at him or away from him. The silence grows. Then, she blurts, "Who is she?"

The question is out, and she immediately wishes she hadn't asked. The spell is broken and the Prince has awoken. But the woman who woke him from slumber is not his Princess - merely the serving girl. "I'm sorry. Don't answer that."

"It's...complicated."

"All relationships are."

He sighs once. "She's married."

Ah. She looks down at her hands, thinking how unfair it is for this woman - unseen and unknown - to have two men in her thrall.

"Even if she wasn't, I'd never be allowed... She serves with me, alongside me. There are rules against it." The words are heavy in the darkness, stones thrown out into the pond with a resonant 'plop', causing ripples to spread outwards from the point of entry until they lap at the shore. "She loves what she does. And she loves him. I'm just...a friend."

Yes, she knows about being just 'a friend'. In a way, that's all she is to him. Less, even. Or maybe more. His confession is made in such a way that suggests that he rarely speaks of it - if ever. It must be a taboo topic among those with whom he works...and yet he brings it to her.

The warmth of his trust spreads through her body, tingling like lightning in her nerve ends.

She lies back down next to him, on her side so she can study the fine profile at her own leisure. His hair gleams silvery in the evening shadows and to distract herself from him, she asks, "What's she like?" She's curious about this woman. Possibly to her own detriment. Something in her knows she'll spend her week imagining herself as the other woman: the one he can't have, but loves nevertheless.

He takes his time in answering, but she can see his eyes flicker in the half-light and knows he's just trying to contain the essence of this woman into a few brief sentences.

"She's so focused. Intense. But when she's concentrating on something, you wish...you wish she was concentrating on you instead. And she's smart. Much smarter than me. She...she has a way of smiling, and you want to tell jokes to see it again and again..." The memory in his eyes dies quietly. "She laughs for him."

The ache in his voice transmits to her as she lies beside him in the bed. Used, but not loved. She knows how he feels about the other man; she feels it for this other woman.

So she asks the question in spite of not really wanting to know. Whoever she is, this woman has a fisted grip on his heart. It makes her sick to think of him working with this paragon, loving her when she doesn't see, doesn't care, and wouldn't want what he had to offer if he offered it. And she might be the one in the bed beside him now, but he doesn't want anything more of her than her body on Thursdays and an ear for his confessions. And that aches. "What's her name?"

He's still for a long time, and she wonders if she's crossed beyond where he'll allow her curiosity to venture. But finally - finally! - he turns to her in the darkness, and rough fingers sketch patterns across her cheeks and down her throat.

But he's not seeing her.

"He calls her 'Sam'," he says hoarsely, drawing her in to him.

And, for the first time since this weekly assignation began, he calls her 'Sam', too.

*