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princesiddie · 7 years ago

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The man approached the front desk of the hotel. He had his luggage, a single small suitcase and a computer bag, sitting beside him. He was traveling. Before this, he booked a flight and a hotel on his laptop from his medium-small home, and packed all of the things he would need for that week into a tiny suitcase he hardly remembered ever even purchasing, and he drove to the airport that was 45 minutes from his house (he arrived early) and shuffled through security (he would've been out faster had there not been such a line) and waited at the gate for 12 minutes and boarded the plane where he sat quietly for two hours between an older woman and a young man who looked much more like a boy than a man (he, amused, thought to himself where his parents must be) and then he departed the plane and gathered his single suitcase and rented a small red car and drove to his hotel, which was this one, and as he was doing now, checked in. “I have a reservation,” he said to the concierge. His voice was soft, just under than what most public speaking teachers said was appropriate (although no one had ever gotten very offended at him for being so soft spoken) and though he hadn't done it then, he knew he was a mumbler and had a slight stammer. “What's the last name?” He told her his last name and gave her his credit card when prompted. He only had two and was considering getting a third at the moment but was ultimately against it because he feared falling into more debt. She typed in his information and nodded when it came up. “You're for one week, is this correct?” “Yes.” She handed him his keys and told him his room number. It was on the sixth and topmost floor. He picked his bags and shuffled over to the elevator, where he gently pressed the up button and waited patiently for the doors to chime and open. The right one arrived first. He was alone. He pressed the button for the sixth floor. When he arrived, the hallway was empty. He walked to his room, his feet softly thudding against the abstractly patterned carpet. He unlocked his door and pushed open the door. The room looked nice. There was a window, and a bed, and a TV, and a sofa, and a bathroom, and a closet with a mirror, and two-- no, three lamps, and a desk, and two side tables. He gently placed his computer bag on the bed. He left his suitcase next to the TV. It looked even smaller there. There was a rolling chair at the desk. He sat in it, but he didn't lean back like he wanted to. He stared out the window, out at the cars rushimg past on the street a block away. He was alone. He was used to being alone. He was single, he didn't talk to his parents anymore, he had very few friends and he never spoke to them outside of work, he didn't talk to strangers more than he had to, and he had no roommates. He had traveled here alone. He had gone to the airport alone. He had gone on the plane alone (he had picked the only single seat on the whole plane), he booked a hotel room for one, and here he now was. Alone. By himself. Thinking. He stood up after a short while, turning his head to look around the room once more. He looked down at the desk. There was a laminated booklet that read “Welcome!” and when he opened it, it was full of travel information. After a moment, he flipped to the page with destinations. There were a few tourist attractions that looked interesting. He made note to try and visit them while he was here. He flipped the page again and found a section about local restaurants. Again, he noted a few that seemed of interest. He wasn't very hungry then. But he would be later. He walked over to the bathroom. He turned on the light and stepped inside. He had a habit of inspecting the bathrooms of places he went, just because. He was never sure why or what he might've been looking to find, but he always chalked it up to nothing more than a harmless irrational compulsion. The bathroom was small. It had a sink, and a mirror, and a toilet, and a shower, and a hair dryer, and soap and lotion and shampoo, and more towels than he needed. He looked over at the mirror. His face stared back at him. He looked at the shower. It looked like it was deep enough to fill with enough water to have a pretty decent bath. He looked over at the hair dryer. He couldn't tell because the cord was wrapped up in spirals and he wasn't holding it himself, but it looked like it might reach. They would not find me. They would not know. They would not care. ...Not now. He turned off the light and stepped out of the bathroom. He was still wearing his jacket, so he picked up the keys to his room and left. He rode the elevator down to the lobby and left, not looking at the same concierge still behind the desk. He went out to his red rental car and got inside. He turned it on, and left. He visited one of the restaurants and ate the food. It was good, just like the booklet at the hotel had promised. He visited one of the tourist sites it was interesting, just like he had thought. When he was out, he was surrounded by people: in their cars on the roads, at their tables in the restaurant, staring at the same exhibit at the attraction. He was not alone. He was surrounded by others. He felt ok about this. When he arrived back at his hotel, it was night. He put his hand on the door knob, turning it gently and pushing the door open. Honey I'm home Honey I'm home Honey I'm home He ordered food from the room service menu, his voice getting softer the way it did when he spoke on the phone (he disliked speaking on the phone) and when it arrived ten minutes later, he ate it slowly. His fork chinked quietly on the ceramic plate. He tried not to let his teeth bite the fork’s tines. When he was finished, he placed his dishes outside like he'd been instructed to, and began to get ready for bed. He changed into his sleeping clothes and brushed his teeth. He watched himself in the mirror as he did. His eyes pierced into themselves, calm and somewhat tired looking. As he unpacked, he realized he had forgotten his razor. There was a sign by the sink that said he could call the front desk for things of the like. He did. When it arrived, he picked it up and thanked the hotel worker. He held it in his hand in the bathroom, his other lightly touching the cool marble countertop. They'll clean it. No one is watching. No one will know. No one will stop you. He shaved. There wasn't much stubble on his face, almost none, really, but it was part of his routine, and he tended to stick to his routines. He brushed his hair with his comb and folded his clothes and placed them back into his suitcase and then climbed into bed. It was a small bed, a full perhaps, or a queen, but he fit into it well. Two would have been snug. But luckily he was alone. No one could stop him from doing anything, no one could tell him no, no one could say anything at anything he did. He could've done anything he wanted. He leaned over and turned off one of the three lamps. He turned over and pulled his blanket up to his chest. He closed his eyes and he fell asleep within a handful of minutes. He had a simple dream, in which he found himself sitting on the edge of a tall building. His legs were hanging over the edge and he was swinging them lazily. He stared down at the sidewalk below, at the people who seemed the size of ants from this height, and the cars bustling past on the adjacent street, at the life around but beneath him. He turned his head to the side, thinking for a moment, before he scooted himself forward. Only the edge of his hips were still on the roof. If he leaned forward a bit too far, he'd fall. He swung his legs a bit harder, heels tapping against the slick glass face of the building. He took a soft breath. He leaned forward the rest of the way. His stomach bottomed out as he fell. The ground, the plain, flat, grey ground, rushed up to meet him, like a mother beckoning him into its arms. He wished to return the embrace. The man opened his eyes. The alarm on his phone was barking harshly at him, echoing through the empty, lonely room.

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