a work of art

chapter 32: hotel

I hated Europe.

Okay, not the continent, but the experience I happened to be having there. It wasn't what I expected.

There's a certain type of person that daydreams constantly about their life. On the way to meet their friend at a coffee shop, they might envision the greeting, how they'll hug the person, how they'll say hello. Not everyone does it, and the people that do it tend to be visual learners, creatives, those that see everything clearly in their minds eye.

I'm one of those people. I see the friend in the coffee shop, see myself open the door, hear myself say, "Hello, lovely! It's so good to see you!"

It's an inadvertent practice I have before any event, large or small. The problem, of course, is reality.

I may get to the coffee shop, and the friend is late. When she finally arrives, she's irritated from the traffic, or the weather. I say, "Hey, dude. So hood to meet you." Then I spend the rest of the coffee date feeling weird and self-conscious.

Well. This is what I did with Europe.

In my minds eye, my millionaire girlfriend and I traipsed along the Thames the moment we stepped off the plane. We kissed on a very European looking bridge by very old buildings. There was no paparazzi and my hair was perfect, and every time we got on the tube we kissed like mad, fondling each other with abandon. We'd never had a fight and our relationship was perfectly stable. We also ate a lot of bread.

Instead, we got to Europe and sat in a hotel room. Billie had meetings, interviews, and was shuttled around nonstop. One afternoon we tried to have a picnic, but the park we went to was far too busy to be safe for her, so we were driven... back to the hotel. She apologized, and we watched The Office for 4 hours straight before passing out at 9pm.

We didn't even have sex. In fact, we hadn't had sex since we'd gotten here... 4 days ago.

She was exhausted already, tired of talking, tired of running around. The shows started in a couple days, and I was counting down. That was the one thing that felt normal about tour, the one part we all looked forward to.

She came back to the hotel each night saying little, wanting to do nothing. I was afraid to touch her after the incident. I was trying to give her space, but I was longing for the comfort of her body against mine. Once or twice, I tried to reach for her as she came out of the shower, or changed from street clothes to sweats, and she shied away. She blamed being tired, overworked.

But I'd seen her tired many times. And in those times she always wanted me, still. She'd never said no to me before, not for anything. This was something else.

This was about Claire.

She snuggled me at night, fully clothed, but without her usual sloth-like grip. Mostly she pressed her back up against me, so I could hold her. I'd bury my face in her hair, and miss her.

While Billie was gone, I sat in the hotel room and waited. I was petulant. I could go for a walk, could go sight see and explore. But I was grouchy, depressed, miserable even. I couldn't read, I couldn't work. My shop got its first negative reviews for bad customer service.

Claire had an adjoining room, and I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn't. I was a coward. Afraid that I would hurt Billie again, make her angry, make her leave me. Afraid Claire wouldn't want to talk to me at all.

So I laid like a lump in our stupid, fancy, sexless hotel room and watched trash tv, waiting for Billie to text me, to get back to the room, to want me like she used to.

I was pathetic.

There were vending machines down the hall that felt like the only normal things in the whole hotel. Billie assured me I could call for room service, or raid the mini bar at any point, but the mini bar was more like a mini pantry and was so expensive looking that it freaked me out.