Thursday, January 17, 2008

The hotel lobby

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise

The hotel lobby smells of desperation and secondhand nicotine. In the nooks, there are large vases. Plastic—you can tell by the false sound they make when tapped, and the cheap shine they have even in this dim light.

I watch the lobby from the bar, pulling on a bottle of something malty and imported. I wish it was scotch, old as the girl waiting tables. Liquid amber on the rocks.

This is one of those carnivorous places—full of hungry predators that move too fast for any lens to capture. The old Vegas glory has faded since Frank, Sammy, and Dean were pals, a pack that ruled these urban pridelands.

We’re still drawn to the old bulbs and tacky glamour. Bound with chains of national nostalgia.

In comes another victim, his eyes glazed doughnuts. His jaw slack, as he drinks in the girl’s overt tawdriness, so carefully maintained by the hotel’s uniform.

I want to run a fingertip along his lust. Stroke it. Encourage the sin. Drink it, since I can’t have scotch.

Her lips are rubies. His move as they form irrelevant words. Another conversation lost in the turning slots.

2 comments:

Rachel said...

Cool set up! I can see it.

Sarah K said...

I like it.