By the time we reach our room at the Hecker’s Hotel,
we’ve finished the last leg from Hong Kong via Frankfurt.
The front office manager welcomes us back
and confirms our table at Cassambalis
for the next three evenings straight.
He offers to carry our bags and show us the room.
My husband declines.
He knows the hotel well.
Matthias, the director, is an old friend from Cornell.
Inside,
I have my husband open the suitcases
and pass me our things.
Minutes later,
my bras in drawers,
our clothes are hung.
Our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
He knows not to ask
before I’m done.
He suggests a shower and a quickie.
I accept the shower.
I decline the quickie.
I have him rub cream on my bum and back.
Into the tattoo I had needled in Hong Kong,
across my tailbone,