bad tourists

Back in their hotel bathroom he shook the contents of the twisted, cellophane bag onto the grey marble countertop while she habitually rolled a bill between the first three fingers of each hand. Though it felt somewhat sacrilegious using foreign currency to such an end, it was undeniably thrilling. Curling the note she studied the contrast between her thumbnails, bitten to the quick, and her long manicured index fingers, and as he ground the jaundiced talc into an even number of neat lines, she recalled the first time he made her dinner years ago. It wasn't what they ate that made her smile, rather the fact that he had given them the same size portions. To her it implied that he viewed them as equals, and though she never acknowledged it outloud, was reminded of it each time he cooked for her.

Nine hours, twelve beers, three pocket-sized bottles of assorted minibar liquor, two missed flights and countless larks in the cool, starchy sheets later she informed the front desk in fragmented Spanish that they were interested in staying another night. At that point they had silently conceded that they were no good to anyone but each other, not fit for public consumption she mentally crowned them with a laugh.

The next afternoon a thin stream of midday light pierced the room where the synthetic drapes failed to meet. It shot across the worn carpet, dividing the room into nearly equal segments. Aside from the light, the only indication of daytime was housekeeping's repeated attempts to enter the room. Completely disregarding the flimsy plastic No Me Molestes sign that dangled uselessly from the knob, the maid continuously rapped on the door in short, staccato bursts while calling out in exasperation. Though the words weren't entirely familiar, her tone was telling.

Fetal on the king size bed she awaited death, wished for it even. "Get in here," he called from the shower. "You'll feel a hundred times better."

As the television blared from across the room, her synapses began stuttering like cerebral Morse Code. Particles of glitter appeared in her periphery, dusting her vision with a cascade of tiny strobing lights. They soon gave way to the sound of running water in the bathroom.

She slowly rolled onto her back and was immediately filled with regret upon rousing the caustic nausea that dwelled in her abdomen, a beet-faced infant that refused to be quelled. Though all too familiar with the consequence of self-inflicted toxicity, the insatiable gnawing pained her nonetheless.

Lying motionless, she stared up at the ceiling at a small watermark that was shaped like Texas. She thought back to her second grade teacher with the exotic drawl, who smoked Kools and had persistent coffee breath. She remembered those webbed toes, which the young teacher would delight and horrify them with when the weather turned warm.

"We need to leave in twenty minutes" he prodded. "Are you coming in?" His voice echoed slightly off the bathroom tiles, instantly dimming the bulb in her mind's projector.

"Coming," she mustered, again focusing on the cork ceiling and wondering if anyone else ever had the urge to jab a pushpin into it.

Artist: Jonathan Viner