I'm at another hotel. This one has tall wooden pillars outside. These days, I stay here to avoid going anywhere else. If you asked me something about my home, I would not know how to answer. I haven't listened to the radio in days. Or read a paper. I'm not sure what's going on in the world and I prefer it this way. Occasionally, I leave my room. But mostly I stay here and listen to music and type into this typing device and look at the weather. All I know is I am somewhere in Colorado in winter. And I don't ski. So there is nothing to do here but be cold.

I try to imagine I'm a woman. Because the stuff I'm typing into the typing device requires this of me. I am not a woman, though. Among other things, I pee standing up. I can't get my head around the idea of soft hands. Or breasts. Or being filled by something. I get close when I drink enough red wine. I'm not sure it's worth it, though. The stuff gives me an awful hangover.

There is a fountain in the hotel. Sometimes I sit on the stone ledge and toss pennies into it. And I think that if I believed in wishes, I'd make one. But mainly I just like the action of tossing the pennies and watching the water ripple as each one hits the surface and sinks. The little plunk, plunk, plunk of it. The way I can cause this series of events to unfold. And the slight variations from one throw to the next. The hopeful anticipation it brings: that this time I will see something different.

Yesterday, I ran into Monica. Most days, she is the only person I talk to. Well, her and the woman who brings the food to my room. We speak mostly through hand gestures. And we teach each other new words. Yesterday, when I saw Monica, I mimed the twisting of a corkscrew into a bottle of a wine and she told me the word for that thing was destapador. She searched her cart with the towels and cleaning supplies and rolls of toilet paper on it, but she didn't find one. She asked me what I called it and I said "bottle opener." Then I repeated it: "bottle opener." She spoke the word. We both smiled.

The man at the front counter is named Gary. I think the name Gary is a good name for a character. It's kind of got an everyman quality to it. I avoid Gary by using the rear steps to smoke my cigarettes. But yesterday I had to ask him for uno destapador. Only I asked him in English. Gary seems suspicious of me. And I'm not fond of the way he wears his beard. Still, I think if I were a woman, I'd probably fuck Gary. Not gently, either. Gary seems like the kind of guy who'd pull your hair and call you slut. I can imagine needing that every once in a while. Like on Sunday mornings. When the good people are in church. I'd call it my Sunday morning fuck. And it would be the kind of thing I wouldn't brush my teeth for.

Category: InBetween