There's something profoundly liberating about stepping outside one's carefully constructed life. Academic colleagues see me as the measured historian, serious and somewhat austere. If they could see me now, arranging discrete encounters in discreet Edinburgh hotels, they'd scarcely recognize me.
Margaret's been gone five years. The loneliness isn't just physical, though that's part of it. It's the intimacy. The touch. The acknowledgment that one is still human, still capable of desire. My students would be mortified to know their professor seeks companionship this way.
I'm selective. Always have been. These aren't transactions, not exactly. They're moments of connection, carefully negotiated, brief but meaningful. A woman who understands discretion. Who can hold an intelligent conversation before and after.
The shame used to consume me. Now it's just background noise. A quiet hum beneath the surface of my respectable life.
Edinburgh understands discretion. Old town, new desires. Silent streets that keep their secrets.