Oasis Motel
3:06 a.m.
Mandy picks shattered bits of windshield out of her arm. Glass fragments glisten red, stark pinpricks against the yellowed porcelain sink. She looks away from the marred counter. Plinks another shard into the basin.
The motel room is dark. Highway noise, pierced by a distant siren, seeps through the open window. She nudges the bathroom door shut, wedges a dirty towel into the threshold to hide her light. Abrasions score her forehead, the grain of the dashboard etched into her pores.
She cannot acknowledge the gash in the countertop, scans past it as she wrenches the hot water tap; it runs cold.
“Figures.” Her voice is a rasp, a grinding gear, a scudding tire. She leaves the water running and yanks the shower curtain aside, hoping to find soap, but the room hasn’t been made up since the previous guest checked out. A leftover shampoo bottle lolls, empty, tipped on the drain’s rim.
She turns back to the sink, tests the water again: lukewarm. A metal coil bolted to the wall holds one folded washcloth, fabric rough as pavement. Her gaze flicks toward the counter. She squeezes her eyes closed, sucks in a deep breath. Refocuses.
That countertop.
The surface is flayed. She shoves her hand over the peeling pink laminate, tries to smooth it back into place, presses with each fingertip, feels again the fading wisp of Johnny’s heat, the peel of his cheek. Tremors slam through her, violent, involuntary spasms, and her bag spills on the floor. She slumps down next to it, hugs her knees, rocks. Stacks of twenty-dollar bills fan out of the bag.
C’mon, Johnny, it’ll be easy, her own voice, an echo in the slap of the water, hanging in the air like steam as the tap finally runs hot. She breathes in the memory. Tastes the edge of her words.
Fixes her eyes on the money.
Originally published in WWPH Writes.