The Outdated Guidebook

The hotel room smelled of beeswax and old stone, a narrow rectangle of warmth tucked into the fifth floor of a building that leaned slightly toward the Seine. The wallpaper was a faded damask, yellowing at the seams, and the single bed—king-sized, overstuffed with pillows that looked like clouds of spun sugar—dominated the center of the floor. Beyond the tall window, the river moved like liquid slate, and the balcony door stood ajar, letting in the damp, metallic scent of the evening. Rebecca stood in the middle of the room, barefoot on the parquet, feeling the strange vertigo of being alone in a place that was suddenly, aggressively shared.

She had spent the last twenty years designing rooms for other people’s fantasies, painting backdrops for lives she wasn’t living. This room was real. The scuff mark on the baseboard was real. The chill in the air was real. And so was the key turning in the lock.