The night is hot and my blouse is unbuttoned half way.
I’m thinking of sleeping in a hotel room, under fresh, clean, new covers, under a foreign roof. I miss the aura of unknown territories, the smell of unfamiliar beds and bleached sheets.
The night is hot, stale, decayed, hackneyed…I feel out of place, like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit, like a misplaced card.
I’m thinking of that untouched room, the one that the maid has just finished cleaning, the one with windows that open to a dark, black midnight sky.
The night is hot. I take off the stale blouse and slip under the covers; I’m tainted by every inch of my old, damaged bed.