But we may both be slightly past that boundary, my traitorous mind thinks.
“What do you study?” I find myself asking.
“Oh, now you have questions?” She’s smiling. I wish I could see it. “Business.”
“Really?”
“You’re surprised? Please don’t tell me you’re some chauvinist who thinks women can only be, like, teachers or something.”
“No,” I say. “Not that. I don’t know what I thought you would say. Perhaps an artist. You seem to have a free spirit.”
“About some things,” she says. “I like to take risks, but I think it’s because I feel kind of…I don’t know…trapped?”
“How so?”
“My dad wants me to take over the family business. I don’t really want to, but he’s not the kind of person who takes no for an answer.”
“I can relate,” I say.
“I know you can.” She shoves up, finds her feet. “I really do need to go.”
She shuffles around, finds her chemise, and pulls it on. Says, “Thank you,” as is customary now.
But before I hear the door open, she says, “Vasiliy says I can set my rate for staying, but I need you to know I’m not a whore. I’m not a sex worker. I wandered into this room by accident, and I danced for you that first time out of curiosity. I don’t work here. I just…came back…for you. I just needed you to know that. I’m not a whore.”
And then she is gone.
Curious, I pull off the mask and find a robe hanging near the door. I step out into the hallway, following silently as she makes her way down the corridor and into the women’s lounge.
I press my ear to the door. Water running and then, crying. She’s crying again, but why?
I want to wait until she comes out the door. I want to pull her to me, to let her see my face. I want to kiss her.
Gods, how many times have I wanted to kiss her deeply and properly?
“Sir?” I hear from behind me.
I turn and find Vasiliy, unflustered but wearing a concerned expression.
“She’s just…I think she’s crying.”
He arches a brow.
“Will you ask her to come back for a moment?”
“Is everything okay with the service?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I just…I need to speak with her.”
“Masked?”
I have a moment of panic. I want to be unmasked.
I don’t want to be unmasked.
“No,” I say. “I’ll go put the mask on.”
“Very well,” he says.
