Waking up to sickly sunlight in a hotel with hourly rates. A phone call from the front desk in a foreign language. The headache, the nausea, the raw throat, the check-out time. She speaks the thought I always shushed. The tapping of the little bag on the table. A tremor in the hand that lights a cigarette. A slug of cane liquor from the bottle. Our skin is smooth, we are still young. One of these days will be the day.
“You were watching the whites of your eyes turn red…”