3.2 restless
she has not had a night like this in quite a long time - sixty whole dollars all to herself, and only a blowjob and a nice long conversation on how pretty the old fuck would look in heels and fishnets. nevermind how she has to get it, though, considering that she’s pretty much the only one on this street - her man has made sure of that, a prophylactic measure taken when she can’t take care of herself.
sixty entire dollars. that’s enough for a long night in a lonely hotel room, one she actually doesn’t have to share with anyone else. she hasn’t taken a real bath in she doesn’t know how long, and all her hopes are for soap that will make bubbles, those tiny bottles that could fill an entire tub with foam. in fact, nothing delights her more. with this much money she might even be able to afford one tiny bottle from the minibar.
the motel is one that reeks of her profession, and she sees a couple of business acquaintances, avoids their critical eyes as she checks in. the hotel clerk knows her as well, is surprised that she doesn’t have some old man in tow, leering over thick-lensed glasses and drooling from the very corner of his mouth. so she flashes a smile and shakes her head and as soon as that key is pressed into her palm she all but sprints into her own, dying to be comfortable, to be alone.
she doesn’t sleep when she gets in the room, but rather lays on the bed and enjoys the sensation of having something at her back that isn’t a brick wall that bites at her skin. she watches television, ignores the roaches that crawl out from under the nightstand when she accidentally nudges into it while getting up to use the bathroom. when she does finally get that bath she can’t take any satisfaction in it as she’s overwhelmed by a need to explore every aspect of this room.
as the steam drains away from the mirror’s reflective surface she studies her face in the mirror - the pockmarks that are a souvenir from a bad PCP vacation, the freckles that fill in the gaps between, the too-full lips that have gotten her accused of surgery before, the hollow pits where her eyes once were, the length of her neck and how it seems to stab into the curved line of her jaw unapologetically, a pole vaulter’s attempt at creating a human being.
wait, what? she blinks; her eyes are, in fact, still there, despite the fact that she’s swearing up and down she only saw sockets a moment before.
she’s far too introspective, so she leaves the towel on the floor and dresses in dirty clothes and goes back to her bed.
next door she hears moans, singular in voice. she hasn’t touched herself since she was young and she’s not about to start now, but there’s this paranoid fear deep in her chest that tells her that were her presence announced, she would have company for the evening.
she doesn’t sleep all night, only turns up the volume on her TV when the sex noises from next door get louder. nothing drowns them out.
in the morning, the maid that comes in knows her by first name. embarrassed, she takes another shower - precaution over practicality - and is back to the street, praying that she’ll have another night like this soon.
