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A few Octobers ago, a couple weeks after Tim and I first began seeing each other, we were lying in bed in a hotel room in Chelsea.

We weren’t having an affair or on vacation; Tim just wanted to stay in a hotel for a few nights.

The air was frigid, but we had sex on top of the blue down comforter.

My skin warmed and my pulse sped up — one of those rare moments of simultaneous thrill and utter calm.

I turned on my side and pressed my lips to his shoulder, so tan and broad.

Our relationship was painful and lovely and complicated, and never quite right or enough.

“I think I’m gonna go.” I was trying so hard to seem composed, but I was shaking slightly, my feet trembling in high-heeled boots. ” He only called me Katie in these sorts of moments, either to placate or further enrage me, I wasn’t sure which. I’m not having a good time.” “Just relax, Katie, try to have fun.” He smiled this sweet, playful smile. I to have fun, I wanted so badly to not care about this.

Instead, we stood near each other but talked to other people, took shots at opposite ends of a long, wooden bar.

Watching him laugh and flirt with a handful of girls, I became enraged, talked about him loudly, and got my friends to send over dirty looks.

Later, Tim took a handful of envelopes out of his back pocket and told me he’d stopped off at the post office after work.

It was part of some ‘Letters to Santa’ project where strangers sent gifts to impoverished kids.

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