ROOM 232: HOTELS & ESCAPISM
I found myself falling on the second floor of a hotel. It was past nightfall and I was thinking about her. It was only her. I saw her lying on the bed beside me, her chest rising and falling with the tides that turned in my stomach as I wondered how I could make the next move. I remember feeling the air leave my lungs in phases as she moved herself to lay her head on my chest. Her hand grazed my waist, lifting the hem of my sweater to feel the goosebumps that layered my ribcage like armor. I saw her near the door frame as she stared into the mirror on the wall, tousling her hair so she could look presentable on the next train ride out of here. Her right pant leg was pulled up slightly compared to her left but she was too focused on the collar of her jacket and the headscarf she was tying in hair. I saw her in the blackness of the TV screen as I tried not to stare when she was bent over untying her shoes. She’d turn around and seat herself on the foot of my bed and pull her feet up to lay across it, sinking into sheets. I approached her with caution, almost asking for permission as I sat myself near her. I was afraid if I reached out, that she’d sink her fangs into the flesh of my hand, though she’d rather die than do me harm. I came home to her, home to texts that she just got back from work and she missed me or to pictures of things she thought reminded her of me. I’d stare at the popcorn ceiling until I grew tired and blamed my lack of reply on the day. The mini fridge in the corner would hum me to sleep. She was the last thing I’d see at night and the first thing to grace my mind in the morning when birds would sing on powerlines.
“...she’d rather die than do me harm.”
Every week, she would come to see me and we would walk to the hotel with her one hand in mine and the other clutching my throat. We’d enter the rotating doors and make a beeline towards the elevators, hoping and praying that nobody would see us. The lobby stared at our backs as her fingers traced my spine, tapping against each notch on my vertebrae. We’d enter the cart and clutch at our wrists as steel doors closed and gravity became our chariot. Seconds would turn to hours as we met my floor and mere footsteps expanded into miles, as the end of the hallway stretched in an endless fashion. The clicking of her heels made a rhythm in my head and once we met my door, I felt like I could sing along with no sense of pitch. No need for a refrain. With a pang in my chest and the unlocking of my door, we’d enter my area of temperance. But as the door closed and she turned to face me, she’d pull me in and croon words into my neck, her lips spelling out nobody is watching and this time is ours to keep.