Somehow in the bright fake light of a motel hallway, faces are distinguished. They are burnt and contorted, remembered, fixed and emptied.
The skin around her mouth is tight and tan. It matches her hands. Her hair is an unnatural blonde, and her roots have grown out roughly 5 inches.
There isn’t much to her except the lines on her face that she seems to carry weightlessly, without notice.
Smiling, she heads back outside, and I get into bed.
There is a ray of artificial light coming through the crack in the curtains. Red and vibrant, I shut off the TV.
