Crossing the Line

A story about marriage and temptation

Photo by Bill Adler

Steven Gill tried not to look at the beautiful woman seated next to him in business class, but she wanted to be looked at.  She wore a clingy red dress and had autumn-brown hair. Her peach perfume was a drug, her smile that of a succubus.

He spun his wedding band around his finger and told himself that he couldn’t wait to get home.

Steven tried to fix his gaze on the other planes on the tarmac, but because she was in the window seat, his eyes returned to her.

Her face was perfect, and her skin glowed in the morning light that streamed through the window.

When the flight attendant asked if they wanted something to drink before taking off, the woman said, “champagne,” and Steven repeated, “champagne,” even though at nine a.m., another cup of coffee would have been better.

The woman offered her hand. “I’m Liliana.”

“Steven.”

“Nice to meet you, Steven. It’s a long flight from Heathrow to JFK, so I figured we should introduce ourselves, even if we’re likely to sleep most of the trip. Even with beds, these flights are exhausting. Whoever said, ‘Nobody ever got off a transatlantic flight looking better than when they got on’ spoke the most honest truth I’ve ever heard.” 

“Yes.” But I’m sure you do. 

The flight attendant rested their champagne flutes on napkins embossed with United Airlines logos. 

The woman raised her glass. “To a comfortable flight and a new friend,” she said before clinking her glass against his. 

Steven finished his drink all at once. 

Liliana leaned closer. “What do you do, Steven? I like your hands, by the way. Strong and capable. Before you answer, may I guess? From those hands, I’d say you’re an architect-builder. Or a geologist.”

He shook his head. “Would you believe a lawyer?”

“A lawyer, how marvelous. A profession for the smartest. What kind of law do you practice?”

“The boring kind.”

“Please, you’re anything but boring.”

“Corporate mergers.”

“You work with the powerful, cunning, and ambitious. That’s exciting.”

“What do you do, Liliana?” 

“What brings you to London? Work or vacation? Somebody as delightful as you, I can’t imagine traveling alone for vacation, so it must be for work,” Liliana said. 

The pilot announced their imminent takeoff. 

The flight attendant collected their glasses, and they buckled their seat belts. 

“I was in the UK for work. An American and a British software company are looking to merge, and I was here to facilitate that. There are a lot of details, and like all international mergers, both companies have to conform with their respective nations’ laws.”

“What companies?”

“I’m sorry, that’s all I can say.”

“I perfectly understand. What about your wife? Does she work? Could you have brought her along?”

“How did you know I’m married?”

“You have a ring.” She smiled. “Women sometimes wear wedding bands to avoid being hit on by men, but men never wear a ring unless married. Plus, you were fidgeting with it earlier.”

He cleared his throat. “She’s a pediatrician.”

“A doctor-lawyer couple. Marvelous. I imagine you’re both very busy.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Steven asked.

“Sleeping in the same bed is pleasant intimacy, even when one of the couple slips under the blanket after the other is already dreaming. The warmth of a body, the slow rhythm of sleep-breathing—they’re wondrous sensations. Long hours are hard, but both of your jobs are rewarding. I hope you don’t work weekends every week.”

The plane banked left, turning toward the Atlantic for its eight-hour journey. Clouds floated by, and the air became crystalline blue as the jet gained altitude. Views from airplanes never failed to enthrall Steven, no matter how often he flew. 

“I’m a good sleeper,” Liliana continued, “but airplane sleeps are especially soporific. Maybe it’s the vibration, the high-altitude air, a bed that fits like a cocoon, or not having access to the internet that makes sleeping on an Airbus hypnotic. A second glass of alcohol doesn’t hurt, either. Would you like one, too?”

“I think so, yes.”

“That doesn’t sound very definite.”

“I’d like another champagne. What brings you to London?”

“Vacation. I love England, everything from the accents to the gorgeous countryside, and especially that the British turned baked potatoes into gourmet meals. I spent three nights in London and traveled by train to Edinburgh, wandering through Edinburgh Castle for probably the twentieth time. I’m sure that on some trip soon, I will follow an unlit, narrow, never-traveled hallway, and when I reach the end of that hallway, I’ll be back in the year 1103, when the castle was built. Have you been to Edinburgh? If not, you should make time during your next trip.”

“I’ve never been, but I’d like to go. I’ve heard many good things about the city. What do you do for work?” 

“I’m a sex worker.”

“Oh.”

She smiled slyly. “You’re not judging me, are you?”

“Of course not. After all, you didn't judge me when I told you I was a lawyer. Nobody likes lawyers. We make the world too complicated, expensive, and combative. And worse, some of us transform into politicians.”

“Like the embryo in Alien that becomes the monster that kills everything.”

“Something like that.”  

Liliana fished into her carry-on bag and retrieved a business card, which she handed to Steven. Printed on the carmine-red card were her name, Liliana Dekun, a phone number, and email address. “You’re welcome to contact me. I live in New York City. I think you’ll find me even more enjoyable than what’s in your imagination right now.”

Steven held his hand up and tapped his wedding ring. 

“I know. But you’ll keep my card?”

“I—” He forced himself not to trace her curves with his eyes. 

“Well, Steven, I think it’s sleep time for me.” She unfastened her seat belt, stood, and organized her bedding. When she was done, she closed the window shade and said, “Surprise me in New York sometime.” She covered her eyes with eye shades and squished earplugs into her ears. 

Steven guided her business card along his fingers for several minutes, casting furtive glances at the passenger next to him. After a time, Liliana’s breathing slowed. 

Steven slipped the business card into his wallet. 

I keep everyone’s business card, he thought. But I’m not going to call. 

Restaurant owners, taxi drivers, private investigators, government ministers, software engineers—he had a dedicated business card folder at home that was more of a diary than a resource because he rarely contacted any of those people. What’s the harm in keeping Liliana’s card? It would be odd and out of character if he didn't.  

He looked at Liliana again and decided he’d try sleeping, too. 

Three days later…

“I Googled the email address,” Kim said. She slid her coffee cup to the side and folded her hands on the kitchen table. “I Googled the email address and found you have a business card for a call girl in your wallet."

A few early-morning birds chirped outside as the sun’s first reds and oranges pushed away the night’s black. 

You were looking in my wallet? Steven thought. 

“I found it when I needed cash to tip the Uber Eats driver. Care to explain?” Salt trails stained her cheeks. Her lips twitched.

Steven explained, focusing on his surprise that a sex worker could afford a business class seat on her own and seemed to always fly business class. He said he had planned to put her card in his business card folder along with all the others—just one of a myriad—but forgot. He apologized over and over again and repeated that nothing came of it. Her sitting next to him (Steven never used Liliana’s name as he answered his wife's questions) was a chance encounter. He had nothing to do with it and planned to do nothing because of it.

“What comes next?” Kim asked.

“What do you mean?” 

“Whether it was an accident or not, you kept her card. I feel like that’s skirting the edge of infidelity. I’m not just angry and hurt that you kept her card in your wallet; I’d be upset even if you put it in your card folio. If the shoe was on the other foot and I had a gigolo's number, you’d be hurt no matter the explanation.”

“If you told me it was an accident, I would be—”

“Why didn’t you rip the card right after she gave it to you?”

“That would have been uncomfortable because we were going to be sitting next to each other for eight hours.”

“You said she fell right asleep. You could have ripped it up then and dropped the detritus into the plane’s trash bin. I know you keep business people’s cards, but holding onto a prostitute’s card is like—it’s keeping the card of somebody who wants to wreck your marriage. Why did you do that?”

“What am I supposed to say? That I was”—Steven caught himself before the word “drunk” spilled out—“tired? Business card, wallet, business card, wallet. It’s what happens with every card somebody gives me. Every single one. It's a habit.”

Steven rewound the reel of flipping Liliana’s card in his hand, trying to remember if he’d ever played with anyone else’s business card for so long. He hadn’t. I was flattered. No, I wasn’t. She probably hands out dozens of cards a week. But nothing happened. Nothing would happen. 

“I’m sorry,” Steven said, his voice heavy with sincerity. “I hurt you. I never meant to do that, and want you to believe me when I say that I have no interest in sleeping with another woman. Period.”

Kim took his hand. “I believe you. I think I trust you. It was a circumstance you had no control over and—”

Steven slipped his fingers out of Kim’s, retrieved his wallet, pulled out the card, and tore it into small pieces. “Gone.” 

“I’m glad,” she huffed. “Intellectually, I know it was an innocent mistake, but I’m still angry, and I will be for some time. Eventually, I’ll get over it. And you’ll never do that again.”

Steven looked up from the shredded paper, his mind restoring the card like a jigsaw puzzle guided by an unseen hand. He thought, maybe I’ll forget her phone number and email address over time.

---

If you liked Crossing the Line, I think you’ll also enjoy my story, Till Trust Do Us Part.

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