She said, “C’est le Jardin d’Éden,” in broken childlike French.
In perfect English, he said, “I am the Old Man in the Sea.”
They were both learning as they lay together on the cream floral printed sheets, the comforter kicked to the floor. She always did this in motel and hotel rooms, no matter how nice they were, because she said they had too many germs. “Who knows the last time they cleaned them. They clean the sheets every time, but the comforters? Like, never.”
He always humoured her and slept without it despite the cold. Who knew it could get this cold in the desert? The comforter matched the walls, in that same drab wooden-brown colour. To compensate for the lack of warmth the heater had to be turned up. The heat was always dry in these rooms. Something similar to coke-nosebleed dry. The wall unit creaked and hummed throughout the night like an old man slowly trying to stand up while humming a slow woeful tune.
The brown comforter cast an unfamiliar shadow on the floor that appeared and disappeared with the rhythm of the flashing neon sign, who was making an uninvited stay in their room. “The fucker didn’t even pay his part of the bill and he’ll be here all night,” he thought.
Through the wall a mix of Spanish Television, war news, and arguing blared. The argument was probably fueled by speed-use, if the look of the clientele were any indication. None of it blared loud enough to keep his train of thought from her. They locked eyes. Their speech continuing in non sequitur.
“The last time I showed you this place you frowned.”
“An airplane never ceases to amaze me. Everyday they fly. People fly.”
They locked eyes until she fell asleep. He watched her mouth unconsciously smile and her eyelids involuntarily flutter before he arose to have a cigarette. After putting out his smoke, he saw her shivering despite the warmth of the wall heater. He covered her body, with the comforter, to the waist and crawled back into bed with her. As he fell asleep he wondered when the next time this comforter would be cleaned or the next time they could love each other this deeply yet this silently.
Maybe every night, but probably not, for either.
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