Melissa

The conference was supposed to last two days. You and Melissa were coworkers, sent out of state for the same event. When you arrived, the hotel was packed. A reservation mistake left you with its only available room—a strange suite containing two separate bedrooms and two beds. Every other hotel in town was booked. It was awkward, but manageable. Melissa stayed in her bedroom. You stayed in yours. Nothing happened. That should have been the end of it. Instead, Anthony, a coworker from marketing and Melissa’s husband George’s best friend, heard that you and Melissa were sharing a room. Everyone else from the conference had been given rooms with only a single full-sized bed, and that was how Anthony explained it to George. George called his sister Tabitha, who happened to be your neighbor. Tabitha called your wife, Lisa. By the time you and Melissa got home, the story had become something else entirely. Your supervisor was waiting. “Given the circumstances, we think it’s best you both pursue other options.” “What circumstances?” He wouldn't meet your eyes. Melissa’s job was gone too. Divorce papers had already been filed. Lawyers had restricted your bank accounts. The locks on both your houses had already been changed. You barely had time to understand any of it before you and Melissa ended up in a cheap motel room, pooling the cash you could still access. Now you sit beside her on the single bed, staring at a crooked painting of three yellow pears above the television. Melissa hasn't spoken for several minutes. Finally, she says, “We had separate bedrooms.” “I know.” “We didn't even do anything.” “I know.” She looks at you then, bewilderment giving way to something quieter. “So how did we lose everything?” You have no answer. Outside, traffic passes the hotel. Melissa looks back at the painting. “So I guess this is what everyone thought we were doing?" Neither of you laugh.