Lying on my back, gazing at the speckled ceiling. Ants. Yes, that’s what I suppose those little specks look like, swarms and swarms of little worker ants desperate to feed their beloved queen. I know how they feel. I’ve listened to her message so many times I’ve lost count and my phone itself seems to think me pathetic. My stiff neck screams of the hours I’ve lien here in this rock hard, spring mattress. The little crackle of my neck popping bounces in the abandoned chamber. A transitory glance at the cracked, analog clock hung high upon the wall, leaves my face twisted in a tight grimace. I’ve missed checkout, which means that I will have to suffer this horrid room another night instead of going back to the city as I had planned. Another night of looking on at that stupid, ugly wallpaper forced upon me. My sigh is consumed by the empty space, well the least I can do is call for some fresh bedding and grab a bite to eat.
Getting up proved to be a far greater challenge than I had expected, for the moment my feet brush the putrid green carpet, I can feel her thumb slide down my neck, and her labored breathing tickling my ear. I find myself captivated by this sweet delusion and I would do anything to never let this moment slip away. Then her hand goes cold, and then disappears altogether. My rigid breath resonates throughout the room and my head falls into my hands.
I want to listen to her message one more time, perhaps this is the time it will become more opaque. You have – one – saved message. Saved message: BEEeeeep. My heart skips a beat as the beginning of her message hangs in the air, waiting for her to speak.
“…Finn, I…I just…I have so much that I need to say but none of the right words to express any of it. Last night was…a mistake, a pleasant one but a mistake all the same. I love Jerry. You are…the worst thing ever to happen to me. Goodbye Finn.” BEEeeeep.
The sound of her voice, which I yearn to watch tumble from her lips, is not the voice of the nineteen year old starlet that I met walking the runways, head floating above her in a cloud of French wine and Quaaludes. Instead, she had developed the worn voice of a survivor. I suppose that in the end that is all we really accomplished, surviving each other. Tossing my phone across the table, it hits the wall and crumbles into a million pieces. Oh well, I’m done with it anyway.
The crash sets me in motion. With a push of my feeble legs, I’m standing and I survey the room for my pants. Instead I cross my crumpled Polo in a ball underneath my pillow and shake it from its misshapen form. I hate wrinkled clothing, but the complimentary iron is in the bathroom and I cannot bring myself to reenter that pocket of her. I choose to suffer my wrinkled shirt, oh how Ralph Lauren would cringe.
Clothing was always so important to her. I remember a time when times were good, I was lying on my bed, breathing in the scent of the lavender fabric softener that she always used. I wouldn’t have admitted it but I loved that smell as much as, if not more, than she did. Once she switched to some lemon crap but after a polite mention or so on my part, she kindly switched it back. But on this night, she entered the room from our master bath and my breath caught in my throat. She had a bare face and had let loose the tight bun she had been sporting that day so that her hair fell in long, black ringlets down to her waist. Behind her dark wave of bangs, her eyes shone a bright, sapphire blue and her bottom lip stuck out in the most perfect pout. Her shoulders and waist were dainty as well as her wrists and ankles, she looked like a statue of Aphrodite. She wore a 50’s style pink, satin slip with ivory lace and her legs stood tall and tanned beneath her. Lit up by my bedside lamp, I watched as she slinked to the foot of the bed and…
She would just hate to see me now, in my creased shirt and ratty boxers. I find my jeans tucked beneath the wheeled, hotel bed and pull them on. I fasten the belt and pause to acknowledge that I am now a notch smaller than I was six months ago. I hadn’t found my appetite quite as vigorous as of late. Picking up the receiver, I quickly informed the maid of my needs and specifications as quickly as able. Then grabbing my room key, I silently slip out of the room, the door clicking shut behind me.
The hallway is nothing memorable but I know that I will never be able to forget it. Thick, gloppy sludge in a cream sickle color is painted upon the walls, and the popcorn ceiling is a baby powder, blue. Thinning carpet leads me down the hall, upon it an atrocious, daisy pattern. The whole room gives me a prickling sense of nausea and my stomach growls at me. I quicken my pace, and it isn’t until halfway down the stairwell that I discern the absence of my shoes. Yet even that cannot chase an accumulated feeling of cheer in my gut and I walk my way out into the lobby.
The space drips with silence, and for a moment I am concerned. Then I spot the staff member I seem to have been looking for. He is a grotesquely fat, middle aged man who stands approximately 5 3’. A stain oozes on his tee shirt and something about him tells me that this isn’t a seldom occasion for such slobbery. When he speaks his voice reminds me of a donkey’s bray, “What happened to your shoes?” he squawks. I just smile the brightest smile that I can muster and shrug my shoulders.
It is than that I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror hanging behind the service counter. My sandy blond hair is matted with sweat and grime, and is sticking up in all sorts of unruly directions. My eyes are swollen red and crusted with some sort of salty grit. My oily skin catches in the harsh, florescent light and my rumpled, navy shirt seems to make my appearance all the more so tragic. A grunting breaks my connection with the spook in the mirror. I look up at the irritated little man and take a moment to wonder what path of chance has led him to be here, looking upon my tonight. He glares at me until he impatiently snaps, “Can I do something for you, Sir?” he tacks on that last word as if substituting an obscenity, and I can feel the pure hostility leaching from him. Kindly I ask for him to direct me to the bathroom to freshen up, he offers a grunt and a point. I nod and smile, then turn as his face twists into a scowl.
I push my way into the men’s room and laugh at my reflection. Splashing water onto my face and running my hand through my hair, I am struck by repeated bouts of laughter. I lean on the cool, porcelain sink looking at my shaking hands and wonder whether I will ever feel whole again. One, warm tear glides down my cheek and I brush it away with my thumb. I smile at the man in the mirror, he smiles back. I release the sink, brush my shirt, and shake out my hair. Pleased to see more of my old self back, I leave the bathroom, watching my bare feet pat across the tile as I go.
After I order a gin and tonic from the grumbling employee, I collapse into a creaky armchair in the corner of the lobby. Pinching the bridge of my nose in an effort to suppress the headache I can feel building in my brow, I take the moment to examine my surroundings. The room is an undefinable shape, it has a lumpish quality that it lends to just about anything inside of it. The color scheme must have been designed by a blind catholic school teacher, and leaves the onlooker quite dizzy. I rest my head on the arm of the chair, and close my eyes to focus on my breaths; one after another.
The sound of waves of oxygen flowing in my head, I dip into a nice serene feeling, and for once I am not thinking of her at all. The shuffling of feet shatter my accumulated bliss. My head still resting upon the chair, I open my eyes in little slits to see the disgruntled man looming over me, fidgeting with his shirt hem with one hand and holding out my drink with the other. Nearly flinging it upon my lap, he takes the opportunity to shuffle away.
The sweaty glass is frigid in my hand, ice clinking in my unsteady hand. Taking a shallow sip, the beverage tastes of soap and disappointment. My mind begins to build my dream world in alcohol soaked sadness. In this dream I never hit Lenna and she never left me that last time. Instead she made it big and we relocated to Paris. We would live in a big flat overlooking the Parisian bay, the house was whit with a little wrap around terrace. On that terrace we had hung an oak bench swing and we would sit there, holding hands and drinking expensive Italian wine and we would smile and laugh together. I can almost see her smile, but in a blink my fantasy world is gone. No terrace, no sailboat studded bay, only one short message on a destroyed phone and a building sense of regret.
Taking a drink, my swallow echoes like a gunshot and I cringe. I set my glass down, intent on watching the beads of sweat drip onto the wooden table, intent on leaving one ugly, water ring. This is what life comes down to, a Xanax fog and a watery cup of gin. My speculations are cut short when a gust of wind reaches out its spindling fingers to my unsuspecting skin. The bell chimes as a young woman bursts her way into the once peaceful lobby.
She is bundled in winter apparel but it is still greatly apparent, the curvaceous body that prowls beneath. Her bright orange-red hair is cropped in a sharp, short bod and her mouth stands out as her most prominent feature. Oversized lips dwarf a little, upturned Irish nose, and a spray of freckles frame her emerald eyes. Her clothes are bright colored, jewel tones and accentuate her youth; I would guess nineteen or twenty if anyone cared to ask.
“My God! What does a girl have to do to get some decent service around here?” Her voice has a clipped, nasally quality that has the habit of drawing attention. She flings her collection of mismatching luggage onto the floor beside the front door and fishes around in her oversized purse, pulling out a slightly worn pack of Gauloises. She cusses under her breath as her nearly empty Bic fails to light. Coughing, I hold out a matchbook I had found buried deep in my pants pocket. I had quit about two years ago but had never shook the habit of pocketing those complimentary matches.
A smile envelopes her face, “Thanks man.” I like her voice more and more, I imagine her speaking to me in bed, and find myself undressing her with my eyes. Her smile twitches and she turns away, pretending not to feel the smoldering look in my eyes. The phhht noise of a match running along the rough flint, is one noise that never fails to curl the corners of my mouth. She holds our one of her unfiltered, French cigarettes.
“Want a smoke, Stranger?” she coos.
I nod and take the offering, seems as good a time as any to start smoking again. I open the double, glass doors for her as we push our way out into the cold night air. My body takes in the overwhelming chill, starting at my bare feet which are ankle deep in the snow, and moving its way up my spine and to my nose. She laughs, the sound reminiscent of sleigh bells and her mouth opens wide to release the mystic sound. We laugh together.
“What in the Lord’s name happened to your shoes?” She looks right at me with those deep, beckoning eyes. I think, when was the last time a gal made me laugh? Since Lenore left me, women had become naught but pretty, little playthings. An endless stream of willing modeling talent left little to be wanted, yet there is something to be said about sharing a hearty laugh with a girl.
She holds out her hand and when I grasp it she pulls me closer to her. Inches away from my face she introduces herself, “Hi, I’m Bridget.” She rests the book of matches in my palm and turns away to take another drag. I light my own, and after filling my lungs with the sweet smoke I return the pleasantry.
“Finn,” I say, the last wisps of smoke dripping from my lips as I speak. “Nice to meet you Bridget.”
“Finn huh?” she turns to me and I can see a glint sparkle in her eye as she finishes, “that’s a funny sort of name.”
“Not at all, in fact I quite like it.” We sit down on a little, brick wall running along the hotel. Leaning back on my hands, I search the heavens for some sign. The crickets chirping and the bull frogs croaking tell me that I still have a purpose. She rests her small, soft hand upon mine. Startled, I look in her direction. She’s staring at me, the look in her eyes impenetrable. My head spinning from her staggering intensity, I turn back to the scenery in front of me.
I can never seem to shake my unadulterated adoration for the English countryside. Perhaps that is the reason I happened to choose this heap on the outskirts of some, nondescript English town. My eyes drink in the beautiful thickets of weeping willows and the closer encampment of wild, untended yellow roses and I wonder if I will ever bring myself to leave this place. There’s fog in the distance, cloaking the rolling hills like an expensive, silk scarf. Little, tapered clouds drift across the generally clear sky, stars shining like pinpricks in a big, black piece of paper.
I can hear her sigh and I look over out of the corner of my eye. Through my eyelashes I can see her profile, backlit by a candle light sconce next to the hotel entrance. I twist my cigarette butt into the brick. Reaching behind me, I pick a daisy out of the window box, and tuck it behind her fragile, pointed ear. She looks over, a pleasantly confused expression lacquered on her face.
“You are a man of few words, Finn. I like you,” Her face scrunches as a smile threatens to turn her lips.
“I have no words to describe tonight,” I look back at the mist in the distance.
“Why are you here Finn?” her voice ends on a dejected note. I turn and look intently into her deep, glass green eyes. First our foreheads touch, then our lips soon follow. I feel her wet tears against my cheek and can hear the scratch of my unshaved jaw against her milky smooth face as we kiss, feeding each other the strength that we cannot find on our own. Mingling tastes of tobacco and honey, her lips molding to fit mine. I draw back and put my finger to her lips.
“My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand. To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

I stand looking at the sunrise through the little window in my hotel room, smoking another one of her Gauloises. Mesmerized by the orange and pink horizon, I watch as my smoke fills the windowsill. My heart slows as two silk arms wrap around my waist, her bare torso soft against my back. Her head rests upon my shoulder as she exhales a satisfied sigh.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for you.” A long silence hangs in the air, cutting to me like a knife and I do all that I can to make sense of the jumble in my head. But then, all of that doesn’t matter because I have my cigarette, and the beautiful sherbet colored countryside, and because wrapped around me is the key to making it out of this dark period. She traces my chest with her fingertips.
“I suppose I must have tripped.”
My cigarette ashes fall to the carpet, and burn holes in the fibers.