Love and the Sea and Everything in Between

chapter twenty-eight

I drive and I drive until I don't recognize my surroundings.

I am now – as lost in fact as I feel in soul.

Judging by the desert around me I think I must be somewhere in Nevada. It depends on how long I've been driving, though. I don't know what time it was when I left and I don't know what time it is now.

It's still dark out, so I at least have some frame of reference.

I keep driving, winding my way through the desert, losing myself in the dirt and stone of the barren earth. I grow tired, though, and I begin to distrust my eyes so when I see an exit that denotes a rest stop and motel, I take it.

I drive through the back road for a while until I finally find the motel. After parking, I make my way inside and walk up to the desk clerk to check in.

"Good evening," she says, her voice like burnt coffee – bitter and hard to swallow. I know she doesn't want to be here right now, working the ghost shift. "How can I help you?" she drawls.

"I'd like to check in to a room."

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"Just for tonight," I say. "I'll be gone by morning."

She grunts. "Twenty-five dollars. Will that be cash or credit?"

I hand her my debit card and as she, very slowly, takes the information and types everything into her computer, I fidget, picking at my fingernails and cuticles until they bleed, biting at the inside of my lip, tearing away bits of skin. My heart beats erratic.

Finally, she hands me back my card and stands up, turning to the peg board behind her. She looks through the keys that dangle from pegs, searching for the right one. She finds it and turns back around, slipping it into my hand.

"You'll be in room 204."

"Thank you," I say.

"Have a nice stay," she says as I turn and make my way to the stairs.

I climb the two flights and am barely halfway down the musty hallway when I reach room 204. Pushing the key into the lock, I turn and the door swings open and I'm met with the smell of moldy food and dirty bedsheets.

Flipping the switch, the light flickers a couple of times before turning on. It's a dull light that doesn't fill the entire space. It casts an eerie orange glow across the gray and black of the motel room. I go to the window and pull back the curtains. All I see is the gas station across the street and the crescent moon that hangs low, kissing the desert hills.

Walking into the bathroom, I turn on the light. Immediately the tiny space is awash in sterile, white light that emphasizes the gray walls and the white appliances. I feel like I'm in a noir film.

Sitting down on the toilet lid, I pull back the tub curtain and turn on the water. Dirt coats the bottom of the tub so I let the water wash it out for a minute. I imagine this room hasn't been used in weeks.

As the tub water warms up, I strip all my clothes of and fold them neatly in a stack on the water tank of the toilet. I take my phone and the half-empty pack of cigarettes out of my pockets and pull my belt from its loops and set them all on top of the pile of clothes. I set my wallet and journal on the toilet lid.

Completely bare of everything now, I stand, watching the water wash the dirt out of the tub and down the drain. When it's warm, I plug the tub and step inside. I lie back and let the water rise around me. My left hand grips the side of the tub and I lay there for a while, watching as the waterline rises gradually, millimeter by millimeter.