The Ninth Hour
A short sexy story
She pulls into the Midway Motel carpark off the main road of a small town known for its retiree population and stonemasonry. She’s driven 258 kilometres south to meet a man for the first time. He’s driving north, cutting inland from a dairy farm to the motorway that runs up the coast.
She’s early. She wants to air out the room before he arrives. She wants to take a scalding hot shower, re-shave everything, moisturise her elbows and kneecaps, the cracked skin between her fingers. She’s going to take her time to blow out each section of her shoulder-length hair, just as she’s practised.
She takes the key from reception and carries her things up to Room 208. It has an outdoor table with an ashtray and two plastic seats next to the door. She puts her bag down and sits on the baked chair in the last of the morning sun. The daylight will get harsher, less flattering closer to noon. She hopes he arrives later, after 3:30 p.m. when the winter sky starts to soften again. She runs her thumb up her phone screen over and over, pausing briefly to smirk at the messages that convinced her to take two days off work, put the dog in the kennel, and cancel reformer Pilates within the eight-hour window where she would be charged.
The walls of the motel room are concrete blocks painted white, giving the impression of a Christian camp bunk-room. The queen bed has a brown comforter folded at the foot, and in the corner sits a child’s single with matching bedding.
At the time, she’d liked that he’d taken the initiative in booking the room. She’d made the decision not to look up any reviews—just put the address into Maps and go. She’d told two people what she was doing and sent them photos of him, just in case, but at thirty-nine, she didn’t need to justify her impulsion.
She’d never really cared, now that she thought about it. She remembered being twenty-three, arriving at the Christmas party held by the director of the insurance brokerage where she worked. She arrived late, alongside forty-six-year-old Shane. He was pale and doughy. He looked dull, but if you studied him closely, the silver chain peeking from his check shirt collar, occasionally spilling over his dark purple ties, represented something else. Shane liked younger women. Shane liked women in relationships. Shane liked her.
