Hotel- 2.
She closed her eyes and cocked the gun as he strained and moaned. It sometimes took a lot for her not to laugh at inopportune moments.
The alarm went off.
"Time's up, fuckhead," she said with a brotherly chuckle. He lay there panting.
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The man in the fuschia suit was always outside smoking. Jake had seen him countless times that weekend. "Who the fuck wears a fuschia suit," he muttered to himself behind the desk. He would put money on the fact that this guy was a tweaker. He couldn't tell what his age was. Jake went back to his sketching. This time it was a strange, Boschian fish-bird that had been emerging. He wondered about the symbolism. He'd always liked Bosch's art and had wondered about all the alchemical mysteries in it. Sometimes during the graveyard hours, he'd play solitaire, or flick each card in the deck across the room by squeezing it vertically between his thumb and index finger until it snapped out.
Jake always wondered if he should hide a gun somewhere in the back office, in case anyone acted up. He figured he'd never need it, but he didn't want to get complacent.
Fuschia suit guy stared in at him through the glass. Their eyes met. This was a little too showdown-y to make Jake feel relaxed.
Fuschia suit guy came back in. Jake gripped his desk and tried not to stare him down. The man just growled. Up close he had so many more wrinkles than Jake first suspected, but the flat kind, that were etched in and had no dimension to them.
The man walked away, and Jake noticed that he was wearing sneakers, like those guys who ride their bikes to work. It was unheard of around these parts.
-------------------
She wandered out into the courtyard, happy that she didn't have to walk through the lobby to leave the Hotel. She pulled out her phone and started fumbling with it. Suddenly she heard a crash, then felt a painful smack. She'd side-checked the concierge she'd seen earlier, who was carrying a massively full trash bag.
"I'm really sorry..." she said, nervously. "Hey, um, don't you have janitors to do that shit?" she chuckled slightly. Her tooth hurt.
"Not right now, I don't," Jake said, rubbing his arm.
"Ok."
Silence.
"Hey, um, sorry about that again." She turned and gathered her coat around her, slinging up her large black duffel bag.
He had glimpsed her face without meaning to. Her brow looked furrowed. She had a set of features that looked like a Mrs. Potatohead, some pieces strange, disproportionate, distorted. Large and broad. She was wearing a great deal of makeup, but it seemed to be applied cleanly, simply. Not caked on. Her face was average-looking. He couldn't make out much under her long coat but she appeared to be wearing something tight. At first, earlier, he had assumed that she was a tranny because she was so tall, especially in heels.
He exhaled and relaxed a bit. "Goodnight."
"Night, man." She walked at a moderate pace.
She made it to the corner and waited for her cab.
The alarm went off.
"Time's up, fuckhead," she said with a brotherly chuckle. He lay there panting.
----------
The man in the fuschia suit was always outside smoking. Jake had seen him countless times that weekend. "Who the fuck wears a fuschia suit," he muttered to himself behind the desk. He would put money on the fact that this guy was a tweaker. He couldn't tell what his age was. Jake went back to his sketching. This time it was a strange, Boschian fish-bird that had been emerging. He wondered about the symbolism. He'd always liked Bosch's art and had wondered about all the alchemical mysteries in it. Sometimes during the graveyard hours, he'd play solitaire, or flick each card in the deck across the room by squeezing it vertically between his thumb and index finger until it snapped out.
Jake always wondered if he should hide a gun somewhere in the back office, in case anyone acted up. He figured he'd never need it, but he didn't want to get complacent.
Fuschia suit guy stared in at him through the glass. Their eyes met. This was a little too showdown-y to make Jake feel relaxed.
Fuschia suit guy came back in. Jake gripped his desk and tried not to stare him down. The man just growled. Up close he had so many more wrinkles than Jake first suspected, but the flat kind, that were etched in and had no dimension to them.
The man walked away, and Jake noticed that he was wearing sneakers, like those guys who ride their bikes to work. It was unheard of around these parts.
-------------------
She wandered out into the courtyard, happy that she didn't have to walk through the lobby to leave the Hotel. She pulled out her phone and started fumbling with it. Suddenly she heard a crash, then felt a painful smack. She'd side-checked the concierge she'd seen earlier, who was carrying a massively full trash bag.
"I'm really sorry..." she said, nervously. "Hey, um, don't you have janitors to do that shit?" she chuckled slightly. Her tooth hurt.
"Not right now, I don't," Jake said, rubbing his arm.
"Ok."
Silence.
"Hey, um, sorry about that again." She turned and gathered her coat around her, slinging up her large black duffel bag.
He had glimpsed her face without meaning to. Her brow looked furrowed. She had a set of features that looked like a Mrs. Potatohead, some pieces strange, disproportionate, distorted. Large and broad. She was wearing a great deal of makeup, but it seemed to be applied cleanly, simply. Not caked on. Her face was average-looking. He couldn't make out much under her long coat but she appeared to be wearing something tight. At first, earlier, he had assumed that she was a tranny because she was so tall, especially in heels.
He exhaled and relaxed a bit. "Goodnight."
"Night, man." She walked at a moderate pace.
She made it to the corner and waited for her cab.
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