a nowhere hotel room in tuscaloosa
by G Heebs
int - a nowhere hotel room in tuscaloosa - night
this bed has tattling springs. you are restless. you don't toss and turn. you remain turned away from me. your bouncing leg stirs the covers like a dreaming dog. you are awake.
me
you
we didn't talk about turning the lamp off. you chose the side of the bed closest to the door. outside, the highway continues a steady cough. it feels like ours is the only occupied room in the place. maybe the world.
the lamp
would it be worse or better in the dark? is the problem here what
could be waiting out there, or what is waiting in here now,
itching, unscratched?
me
you
we are back to back. it's on the bedside table. it's always within reach. looking at it is like looking into a mirror and forgetting what you look like even while you're still looking. I wonder how long it's been since I captured something I actually wanted to capture.
you
(like someone who hasn't spoken out loud in years)
you awake?
me
yeah. are you?
you
(laughing)
…
there is no angle in this room that I want to face. you are not this room. I turn onto my back.
the ceiling
why is this what you're most afraid of? why, out of everything,
is this what you fear so much it makes you sick to your
stomach?
my stomach
it's the fear of loss. the threat of having the rug pulled
out after feeling it on your feet for the first time.
the sky
(from the window)
he can be nothing to you. you can always keep a void
between you, a moat, a car console, a camera. you can
keep him out. you can keep him at a distance.
the camera
(quoting)
"well, I'm not dead yet. so that's something, at least."
you
(as your foot just barely touches mine)
sorry.
me
I want to squeeze my eyes shut. I want to scream. I stare at the ceiling quietly.
how many thresholds have you passed through, driven miles
straight away from, to end up right back in this same spot?
you
I want a smoke.
you don't get up. I remember a saying about idle hands. I can't tell if I caused my own headache.
me
(in my head)
bad for your health.
you
(in my head, voice clearer than my own)
what isn't?
me
(in my head and just barely out loud)
don't know.
you didn't hear me. you roll onto your back anyway.
the bedsprings take a deep breath along with you. we stare at the ceiling quietly.
you
(as the side of your hand just barely brushes mine)
…
I carefully cross the void and fill in the leftover gaps between your fingers with mine. your hand curls around mine as easily as it does around the steering wheel.
me
(hesitating on the edge of a thousand words)
this okay?
you
(laughing gruff and sleepily through your nose)
much better than, if you can believe it.
we don't talk about turning the lamp off. I don't feel sick for the first time in a long time.
maybe ever. outside, the world continues a steady cough.