As I walk to my room after a late dinner, I see two of the shirtless fatmen™ sitting on one of the couches that populate the porch. They are sitting in complete darkness, distinguished only by the glowing end of a joint and the glint off of a bottle of beer. We exchange pleasantries and they continue their unenlightened conversation (the fatman explaining how he almost punched the landlord this morning when accused of pilfering alcohol) as I climb the stairs to my room.
The lovers are loud tonight. But not as usual. They are arguing; Olga, it seems, has to return to her Eastern European country. They
have been trying to work out the logistics of a continued relationship, and
have finally reached the conclusion that it's just not possible. He is angry, much
more at the world than her. She is crying, with shrieks and sobs that sound not
unlike the thunder this morning.
This is goodbye, for good.
All joking and petty sarcasm aside, I
really feel for these two. I can feel the tangible weight of their pain and frustration with the roughshod unfairness of the human condition, wrapped up with love's crinkly tissue paper in a dirty, smelly, hotel room-shaped box.
This place could take down the best of us, and the best of us don't live here.
This place could take down the best of us, and the best of us don't live here.
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