By Tom Leins
The night air is hot and thick. The Swanson smells so bad it would probably take a fire to destroy the stink completely. The desk-jockey is a junkie. Both his eye-sockets were fractured as a child, giving him a sunken, haunted expression.
“Which room?”
He passes me the key, nervously. It’s the honeymoon suite. I remember the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
The corridor is long and gloomy. Just like my life.
I press my ear against the door. The bullet splinters the cheap wood and hits my shoulder.
My vision goes blurry.
The tropical-print wallpaper seems to fade a little more each year.
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