The lobby bar is a tang of sandalwood and designer fragrances. It is the smell of mating rituals, of potential adultery. Cycling LEDs seem to trim every surface. At present everything is bathed in a deep blue transitioning almost imperceptibly to violet. We’re tucked into a semi-circle booth chosen for its place in shadow.
Jae, my wife, half-reclines into my chest pressing her cheek to mine. My left arm is draped over her. My right lifts a twelve-year-old MaCallan to my lips. I’m surveying her body, as I’ve always done, like newlyweds despite this being our twentieth anniversary. She’s in a short black dress, chosen specifically for tonight’s adventure. Her flesh in the dress’s low neckline is growing more violent in the subtle shift of LED light. Something about her sharp relief of her clavicles in this light captivates me and I reflexively trace one with my left hand. In her mid-forties, she is every bit as beautiful as the day I first met her in Seoul.
I begin watching her as she continues to scan the crowd. A sly grin grows at the corner of her mouth when she realizes I’m watching her. She laughs nervously. I do too. Neither of us, it seems, can believe this happening.