The Hotel Room

Every hotel room has the same bones: the tiled entry way, the large mirror by the door, the mass-produced artwork, and the white linens. The desk that inevitably ends up covered in snacks, a half-consumed bottle of wine, and forgotten card keys. The over-conditioned air.

All the things I eat are “take-away” or snacks.

I walk down the street to a deli and it’s bustling with the lunch crowd. There is construction happening in small pockets throughout the “city” so there’s noise from every direction. Today I’ve had five(??) Nespresso pods, half a cinnamon raisin bagel, an apple and two-thirds of a slice of vegetarian pizza.

Like most hotels, this place also has cable TV. I switch it on and try to see what’s happening in the world through the black window, then shut that shit off after two minutes. I can hear the housekeeping ladies speaking in Spanish next door.

I’m half tempted to take a Trazadone from my dog’s stash so I can nap. She’s finally relaxed on the sofa behind and has no interest in the big, fluffy dog bed they delivered up to the room yesterday.

The day goes on and other people come into the hotel room and out, they deliver things, I go to pick up dinner, we watch some ridiculous movie starring Jennifer Aniston through the black window, we take the furry little one for a walk again. She still hates it. Eventually everything winds down, the blackout curtains are drawn and we each go to bed. It’s late. I can hear the traffic noise outside, the loud car stereos, the couple stumbling back to their hotel room next door after a couple of drinks. After reading for a bit, I just lay there within the white bed linens and stare at the black window wondering how Jennifer Aniston keeps her skin glowing.