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If he sees the tension on my face, he doesn't show it. "Ah, yes! The system can be...how do you say...buggy with last-minute reservations. Here you are. I see you now."

There's something about the way he says it—with his thick, singing accent, that makes my spine tingle. He sees me. I am being seen.

Then something changes in his face. His smile widens and his eyes fill with surprise. "Oh, um...congratulations!"

He looks behind me and scans the small lobby, his expression turning more into a question mark with every passing second.

"I'm sorry?" I say, following his gaze.

There's a couple behind me, loaded up with two small children and double the amount of suitcases. They looked pained, showing more than a hint of impatience at all the time this is taking. I don't disagree.

Amir shoots another glance at the front door, but whatever he's looking for, it's not there. "It says on your booking"—he points at his screen, frowning—"that this is your honeymoon." He lowers his voice on the last word, as if sharing a dirty secret.

It had sounded like such a wonderful idea: a Paris honeymoon. A lifelong dream of visiting the City of Lights, the real love I'd been waiting for finally coming along, fantasies shared in the dead of the night. And then...I see myself pounding the steering wheel of my car with a rage I often suspected was inside me but had never let out. Looking over my shoulder as I marched into JFK airport. Heading to the ticket counter and asking if there was space on the next flight to Paris. There was! There was. And how did I want to pay? Cash. Cash? The airline representative's curious tone when she asked; my eyes struggling to meet hers when I confirmed. Yes, cash. The words resonated between my temples, because they couldn't have come out of my mouth, could they? I wasn't really going to Paris right then and there, was I? The question circled in my head in an endless loop as I sat straight in 37E, while all around me screens lit up with the latest superhero movies or old episodes of Friends.

And then they closed the door. We were about to take off, and the voice on the PA system was asking all passengers to switch off their phones. My mind scrambled as I tried to think ahead to what I needed: somewhere to sleep. I typed in the keywords frantically, half hiding my phone under the leather jacket on my lap as a flight attendant, with a bun so tight I could see the shape of her skull, moved through the cabin. After I selected a hotel and room type, there was a question: What is the purpose of your trip? I wrote the truth.

Amir keeps staring past me, but if he's looking for the husband part of this honeymoon, he'll be waiting a long time.

I'm not prepared to share that information, so, when the silence has gone on too long, he clears his throat. "If there's anything we can do to make this special trip even more memorable, please let us know."

"Well, um, thank you," I say, pretending not to notice the amused look on his face. "Merci beaucoup," I correct myself, as if it's going to make me look any less like a sad excuse for a newlywed.

He moves along gracefully. "I'll need your passport and a credit card."

I hang on to my bag tighter, my fingers gripping around the worn cross-body strap. "Excuse me?"

The young family shifts behind me, mumbling a little louder. Their children have started to roam around the lobby, and the boy is attempting to climb inside a cleaning cart parked by the wall.

"It's something we have to do," Amir says. "For safety. And it's the law. We have to record everyone who comes through here."

The law. It makes me shiver.

Of course hotels require identification. I knew that. But I hadn't thought about leaving a trace. No one can know I'm here. Now I have no choice. I carefully unzip my bag and slip my hand inside to retrieve my passport. It's crisp and clean. Never used before. I hand it over.

"Will you take cash?" I say.

Cash is the one thing I happen to have plenty of.

"Absolutely, madame," he says as he turns around to face the small copier on which he flattens my passport, cracking the spine open.