Inanimate objects are much better lovers

It turns my stomach to even remember, which is an improvement that I even care. The second hand kept landing on nine every time I glanced at it, making me wonder whether I would be stuck in this moment till he was happy with my answer, but the minute hand was quickly skipping recognizing my flight time, sympathizing with me, hoping it would end soon. And it did…

I was out of town. And I can’t stress enough how good it felt. To leave in the night with no one knowing where you are or where you’re going. Oh, cold concrete and striped blacktop you are my love. I will never leave you, no matter how much some brave, disjointed emotion or warm, relaxed hands could give. I am yours and am too selfish to share.   

I parked and went inside the Super 8 around 4 AM. An Indian woman—eyes closed and joints stiff—gave me room 106. The box smelled like stale cigarettes and too little detergent. With every light turned on I still had a hard time seeing the stains on the now off-white sheets. The mattress rustled as if it were made of paper and the pillows were only their cases. The pen on the nightstand had been decapitated of its inked point.

As I scribbled I wondered how many other people like me had been here before, writing frivolously, happy, alone. I only wish to meet one of them. Maybe next time I’ll ask at the front desk, I need a room with a vagabond type who travels only with a pad of paper and a pen, mentally exhausted but relieved finally, ambiguous but readily available if you ask the correct questions, immoral but not tonight. No preference on sex or age but must be a smoker.

I slept better there than in my own bed. The farther away from my own comforts, the easier it is to sleep.

He left me with, “I’d rather be miserable.”

We only agreed once.