There's something almost academic about arranging these encounters. Not just the physical meeting, but the careful choreography beforehand. Emails exchanged with the precision of research correspondence. Subtle confirmations. Checking references. Making certain of mutual comfort and discretion.
Today's liaison was with Clara, a woman who carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who understands boundaries. We met near the Royal Mile, where tourists bustled unknowingly around us. She wore a simple charcoal coat, looked professional. Nothing about her suggested anything beyond two colleagues perhaps discussing a conference.
The hotel room was neutral. Beige. Unremarkable. Perfect.
What strikes me most about these encounters isn't just the physical release, though that matters. It's the conversation. The momentary intimacy. Clara was intelligent. We discussed Scottish political history between more intimate moments. She knew more about the Enlightenment than most academics I know.
My colleagues would be horrified. The respectable widower, trusted department chair, seeking companionship this way. But they don't understand loneliness. The careful performance of professional life leaves little room for genuine human connection.
Another afternoon. Another carefully maintained secret.