Once, I believed hotels were shrouded in mystery. I oft recall the early morning drive home from work. Along my drive was a hotel and a simple past time was sitting at the light across the way and while waiting for the light to change, making up stories to go with the illuminated windows that flecked the otherwise dark exterior. I mean, why else would a light be on at 4:45am?
Then, I became a hotel dweller. The mystique disappears. Hotels have an aesthetic about them: quiet hallways, empty drawers and closets, generic art on the walls. It’s not home, it’s temporary. Here, you have no past and no future. What happens in these walls stays in these walls and you go on about your life.
Tuesday afternoon. Rainy. It almost never rains in the desert, but when it does, it transforms the cities. Everything gets that blurred, soft feel to it. Suddenly the world is a little calmer.
My heels clicked on the marble floor as I crossed the hotel lobby. 2915. Nobody noticed me. Why should they? The elevator doors closed and I waited as it made it’s ascension. My heart began to race, blood thrumming in my veins. Nerves were starting to get the best of me.