So I walk.
Shoes soaked, tights wet at the knees, slipping every third step.The snow had turned to that half-melted salty slush that soaks through soles like it has a personal grudge.My skirt rode up with every gust of wind, like it, too, had abandoned all decency.
At one point, I muttered, "You deserve this," out loud.
Not for the date.For believing I could replace true fire with shallow flattery.
Halfway through, I passed a small gas station.They might call me a taxi!
But it was a self-service 24/7 kind of gas station.
So, I pulled out my credit card, bought a bottle of overpriced water, and stood under the tiny roof, staring at my reflection in the dark window like it might offer life advice.
It didn't.It offered pity.
My eyeliner had surrendered.My hair was a tragic novella of wind, snow, and static electricity.My blouse clung to me like I'd been caught in an avalanche-themed wet t-shirt contest.
I limped into the hotel just after midnight, frozen and furious.
The lobby was quiet.Lights dimmed.Even the fireplace had given up for the night.The concierge had abandoned his post, and the only sound was the gentletick-tickof that stupid retro clock over the hearth.
But still.I paused.Just a second.Just long enough to notice the couch.
Someone had been there.
There was a cup of tea on the low table.Still warm.No steam anymore, but not cold either.The kind of warmth that meantminutes, not hours.
I couldn't resist.My feet were blocks of ice, my shoulders soaked through, and I was starting to lose feeling in one earlobe.
I sat down and wrapped both hands around the cup like a pilgrim who'd reached salvation.
I felt vaguely criminal for drinking someone's unfinished tea.But the kitchen was closed, my pride was wrinkled and frozen, and I needed warmth more than I needed dignity.
So I drank it.
Quietly.Slowly.
Then I walked the stairs, too cold to wait for the elevator.
I fumble with the keycard three times before it gives in like a sulky child.The door swings open to darkness and that faint hotel smell: linens, minibar plastic, and defeat.
I throw my clutch somewhere near the armchair.Jacket follows, landing in a heap like it's exhausted too.My heels get kicked off with a sigh that feels disproportionate until I realize I've been clenching my toes for the last hour like they were trying to crawl out of my boots.
The bottle of wine from one of the sponsors, the one I didn't open before the date, is still on the dresser, mocking me.I pour a generous glass without even checking the label, let the deep red swirl like blood.
Then I stop.
I stare at my reflection in the window.Night-blank outside, just the ghost of a woman in a damp blouse with tangled hair and too many thoughts.
Somewhere between the half-hearted glam and half-frozen walk, I lost the thread of who I was trying to be tonight.
I pick up my tablet from the nightstand, swipe it awake with a finger that still feels stiff.Notifications blink.Battery low.
You too, little guy?
One message glows, pinned at the top.
Thomas, from a few days ago:
