She read the gold letters on the door, which read 242, and put the brass key into the lock. It made a scraping sound as she turned it. She’d given the manager a quizzical look when he’d handed the key to her in the lobby. She’d asked if they had mobile keys, at which he’d smiled a little condescendingly and handed her this key. It was heavy in her hand. A pleasant weight, like it really existed, not like the key to her bike lock, which took up so little real estate in the world that she had to look down at it to check that it was still in her hand. The key looked much like the rest of the hotel, which was decorated in what could only be described as “hipster-mobster-chic.” There was a large bull’s head stamped into the brass on the end of the key, and a little scrolling design, which upon closer inspection turned out to be comprised of mustaches, ran down the key. She opened the door to her room. She stood, blinking, for a moment. The walls were a light blue satin finish on one side and a deep maroon with a matte finish on the other. The ceiling was painted a shiny gold. She peered her head into the bathroom, which looked nice but perfectly normal until she noticed the string hung diagonally across the room from one corner to another. She stepped closer and realized that there was a plushy shark suspended on the string. She set her bags down on the sparkling bathroom floor, which was revealed to have something glittery in the tile’s finish, and slid the shark along the string until it sat hanging over the oversized bathtub. “Huh,” she said, as she turned to look at herself in the mirror, which she now noticed had holographic-looking letters carved into the top, right corner that read “Hello, Gorgeous!” In the room next door, she heard a grunt, and the door closed with a slam. Not like the resident was angry, but like they’d lost their grip on the handle as it closed. “Yeah, yeah,” she heard the resident say. “Oh, no,” she whispered. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and picked up her bags to move them into the living room, hoping that the walls were thicker in this part of the room. “No, for sure,” the disembodied voice next door said through the wall behind the bed. With an almighty plop, the voice-owner sat down on his bed and in her own room she could hear the headboard knock against her wall. The voice was unmistakably male. She laid face-up on the bed, flopping a bit herself in hopes of alerting her neighbor that his sounds could be heard. Random words reached her from the only-slightly-muffled voice. Words like “soon” and “alright” and “yes” rose frustratingly above the important words of the conversation leaving her without a clue as to its content. Plop, her neighbor kicked one shoe off onto the floor. She put her hands over her face and groaned. Plop, went the other shoe. She rolled over in the bed and stretched her arm for the bedside lamp. Her hand met air, and she sat up on the bed, looking around for the reading light. Her eyes met the deep sockets of a porcelain bull’s head that sat above the bed. “Oh, no,” she said again, as she reached her hand toward it. She felt around the sides of the head until she felt a switch. She flicked it on and stared as a wide beam of light emitted from the bull’s mouth. She squinted. Yes, she was right. The light was spelling out the word “Moo.” She sighed again, plopping her own shoes one by one on the floor and grabbing the remote. “Nicest hotel in the city, my ass,” she said to herself. The bed was nice, and the TV was very large. The TV was set to flip to the local news whenever it was turned on, a hotel tradition which she had never understood. After an hour of mindless channel-flipping, she put on her “slippers,” a pair of white slip-on sneakers that worked perfectly for business trips like this, slipping seamlessly from running shoes to an out-of-left-field-but-still-very-chic pairing with her suits for longer days of meetings to slippers. She fished her wallet out of her purse and walked out the door, the brass room-key sitting heavily in the pocket of her satin suit pants. As she closed the door behind her, she glared at the door of Room 243 for good measure. Its resident, too, had decided to turn on his TV. Room 243’s door had opened and closed a few more times over the last hour, the volume level of both the TV and the conversation getting steadily louder until she finally couldn’t stand it anymore. She took the elevator, which was made of highly reflective black laminate that was cut into a deco pattern by gold stripes, down to the lobby. She stepped out and noticed again the vaulted ceilings and chandeliers. Her eyes fell on a sign in front of her that showed a flock of ballerinas painted in a pinup style standing in front of a mirror at a ballet bar. All of their legs were lifted high in the air and pointed to the right, and the words “Bar! This Way!” were painted under it. She put her hands into her pockets and followed the legs. She ordered a Mojito and went to sit on a large, white-leather sofa. Calling the piece of furniture a sofa was an understatement. It was more of a city block with deep button tufting with four sides for seating and a large table-like top in the middle. When the bartender brought her her drink, there was a thick slice of kiwi floating in it, and a rubber shark fin on a stick served as a cocktail umbrella. Out of curiosity, she took the stairs back to her room. She wasn’t disappointed – the entire stairwell had a nautical theme. The stairs were made of concrete with a swirling, deep blue, extra glossy finish, and the walls featured a mosaic of long-haired mermaids swimming past undulating seaweed. She opened the door from the stairwell into the hallway and stopped. A thumping bass sound was shooting down the hallway from Room 243. With an angry groan, she walked heavy-footed toward Room 243’s door, which, she noticed with a flare of frustration, had a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging off of it. She reached her hand toward the nob, sounds of alcohol-drenched laughter, the kind that bubbles up too loudly like champagne exploding from a bottle, flooded her hearing. Her ears buzzed, and the buzzing traveled through her head to settle in her mind. A feeling like a thin fog separated her from the rest of the world. She imagined opening the door. A faceless man greeted her, sweating drink in hand, and yelled at her for interrupting their party. Or, worse still, looked her up and down and invited her in with a sickening grin. She drew her hand back from the door like it had bitten her. She wiped her hand pointlessly on her satin pants and reached into her pocket. She fumbled with the key in the lock, a feeling like she was being chased bubbling up inside her from her toes. Up her legs. Into her chest. She unlocked the door and closed it behind her, the feeling retreating back down into her toes. She took a deep breath. She tried to name something she could see. She looked up at the light. Moo. Something she could hear. Thump, thump, thump, and a party-girl scream of delight. Something she could taste. The tiny piece of kiwi pulp stuck between middle-teeth. Something she could smell. Patchouli. She shook her shoulders like an aspen in a breeze and felt much better. She brought her toiletry bag into the bathroom and turned the tap in the tub on full. She opened the toiletry case and took out the little glass bottle of white orchid bath salts. She held it to her nose and closed her eyes. She focused on the scent and the gentle pounding of the water on the bottom of the bathtub. The other sounds melted away. For good measure, she walked out to her purse, shedding her suit onto the floor as she walked, a habit she’d developed to make hotel rooms feel more like home, and pulled out her phone and headphones. Going against everything that warning labels and her mother had ever taught her, she sank into the bathtub with her headphones in and Julie London singing in her ears, ignoring the shark suspended from string above her head. When the bathwater got cold, she set her phone on the side of the tub and stepped out with a loud slosh. Her bare feet sank into the plushy, shag bathmat with suds still clinging to her body. She reached awkwardly for the dark purple towel that hung from a clear, glass bar by the door, careful not to let her feet touch the floor. She patted the suds off, watching the clouds of bubbles disappear with every pat. “Shoot,” she muttered under her breath as she looked around for her sneakers. She’d left them on the floor close to the door. She picked her phone up from the tub and clutched it and the towel in her hands. She pushed each headphone more firmly into her ears and dragged her foot forward on the bathmat, carrying it with her one slide at a time toward the shoes. She moved like she was struggling into a pair of too-tight jeans. She wiped her feet off with the towel and stepped into the shoes. Then she stepped off the bathmat and made her way to the fogged mirror. “Hello, Gorgeous!” it still said. She reached into the cubbies under the countertop, each of which was a different size and shape, until she found a hairdryer. She turned it on before taking her headphones out. She blew the moisture out of her hair, turning the heat up to high right before she was finished and blowing the hairdryer over her chilled arms and legs, and shut the hairdryer off. She reached for the bottle of serum in her bag and squeezed a few drops into her hands. She ran it over her hair, watching the strands straighten and bounce back, straighten and bounce back, looking shinier and healthier with each swipe of her hands. She washed the excess product off her hands and stopped. She turned the water off. Her wet hands dripped into the sink, and all she could hear was the faint patter of the droplets. She dried her hands hurriedly on the towel and wrapped the purple robe from the back of the bathroom door around herself. She jumped onto the bed and put her ear to the wall. Silence. With a smile she melted into her pillows and drifted off into an uninterrupted sleep.
... The next night, as she walked back into her room, she paused next to her door. No sounds came from Room 243, the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hanging from the knob. She opened the door and preemptively turned the TV on, hoping she could keep herself from noticing any sounds whenever 243 returned to his room for the night. But no sooner had she flipped the channel to something mindless and stupid, the kind of show you only watch in a hotel room while you flip through the style magazines the staff has left on your coffee table, than she heard 243’s voice coming down the hall. She turned the volume up two clicks. He was on the phone again, and his series of “yeahs” and “uh-huhs” drifted through the crack under her door. The door handle slipped out of his grip again, and the door closed with a bang. She turned the volume down again to listen for conversational clues as to 243’s identity. But instead of more “yeahs” and “uh-huhs,” she heard a strangle cry. Like a scream had gotten caught in 243’s throat and couldn’t escape in time. She sat up and muted the TV. Maybe he’d stubbed his toe. Or was just struggling to pick up his suitcase. But there was silence. For fifteen minutes, she tried to listen. More and more guests were coming down the hallway after their various days spent in only slightly varying meetings, and after fifteen minutes, she convinced herself that some of the sounds she thought were coming from the hallway must be coming from 243. She thought of knocking on the door. But the buzzing came back into her head at the very thought of walking up to his door. She turned the show back on and waited for her mind to numb. The next night, she returned to her hotel room and kept her same routine. Just because last night 243 had chosen to go to bed early didn’t mean that he would tonight. She changed into her sneakers and turned the TV on. She contemplated going down for a drink. Perhaps she’d try the Bloody Mary she’d seen served to another guest with a small slider on the cocktail stick. She looked at the magazines for a while and then made up her mind. She put the key in her pocket and walked out the door. She paused outside 243. Maybe he’d just left. She shouldn’t suppose that just because she was staying a few more nights at this hotel so was he. No, that made no sense at all. The room was probably just empty. The Bloody Mary was good, but the slider was too greasy for her taste, and she came back up to her room half an hour later having decided to take the elevator because of the queasy feeling in her stomach. She shared the elevator with a maid and a cleaning cart, both of which were dressed up with all the trimmings of a 1920’s hotel staff. “Is the hotel pretty full this time of year?” she asked the maid casually as she pressed the number two button. “Oh, no,” said the maid, shaking her head as she pressed button for level four. “This is the dead season. The only other occupied room on your floor tonight is 243. Mostly just people like you and Room 243. People here on business for a few days at a time.” She nodded as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. “Goodnight,” she said to the maid as the door closed behind her. As she approached her own door, she made a split-second decision and placed her ear against 243’s door. Silence. As she left the hotel the next morning, she stood outside 243, her bags in her hands. She stared at the doorknob, the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hung resolutely from the knob, before walking toward the elevator. She pressed the down button. As the elevator rumbled up the shaft, she felt herself walk back to 243 and knock sharply on the door. Then she turned quickly and ran toward the opening elevator doors, the feeling of being chased rising up again from her toes into her chest. She pressed the button for the lobby, and as the elevator doors closed, a man emerged from 243, the side of his face bathed in some red-orange light. And just for a second, their eyes met. She checked out quickly, taking the large brass key out of her pocket with something like sadness. She’d grown used to its weight. And she rushed out to where the cab she’d called was waiting. She was off to a new city. No time to go home and repack. She’d use the laundry service at the next hotel. They never put her up in a hotel without an on-premises dry-cleaner. She appreciated that. She entered her new room, a much more standard room in a much more standard hotel. Beautiful and nice, but in an almost soulless way. She dropped her bags on the ground, jumped onto the bed, and turned on the TV, which, like all hotel TVs, was set to show the news. Large letters were scrolling across the screen, and a reporter wearing far-too-much makeup was reading quickly from a teleprompter. She pressed the channel guide button as the reporter’s words washed over her, unheard, until the name of the hotel she’d stayed at the night before caught her attention. “The deceased was found in Room 243 of the hotel. He seemed to have died from a traumatic brain injury and had suffered several wounds to the head. He’d booked the room for three nights. When questioned as to how it took so long for them to find him, the manager of the hotel answered that it was due to the hotel’s new cleaning policy of cleaning every four days for their longer-stay guests.” She stared at the TV. “A suspect, a friend of the deceased, has been called in for questioning,” the reporter said as a picture of this suspect, a man, filled the television screen. She brought her hand to her mouth. No sound came from between her lips, the reporter’s words fading into the fog that was falling over her mind. The buzzing sound started, first far away, and then so loud she could hear nothing else as she looked at the picture on the TV in front of her. Her eyes met his and from some recess of memory only now being processed, she realized. It hadn’t been red light on the side of his face.
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