“No.” I insist. “I have my key.”
I dump the contents of my tote bag onto the floor and begin sorting through them. Pepto-bismol tablets. Liquid pepto-bismol. Ibuprofen. Aspirin. Antacids. My daily medications. A half full bottle of hand sanitizer, a lip gloss and a travel pack of issues. Andy’s postcards and letters. My scarf. A deck of playing cards, my house keys and the keys to the now wrecked truck. No resort key in sight.
“Madeline,” Dean repeats.
“I’ll be damned before I go through your door.” My voice is my titanium shield. I check inside the packet of tissues and inside every crevice of my bag. But no key. I carefully place each item back in the tote bag, nearly resigned to my fate of having to face Dean.
I shove my hands in my coat pockets when I feel something hard and metal. The darn room key. “Ha!” I pull it out, pleased with my success. I fumble with putting it in the lock, but I manage to get the door open. He’s standing directly behind me, breathing his stupid breathy breath down my back.
“Good fucking night!” I say decisively and slam the door in his face.
More Than This by Andy McKinney
In a corner, two at a table
A glass of vodka with ice
And a glass of sprite
I love you more than this
Low lights overhead
Eyebrows raised and fingers reaching
Full hearts and a basket of bread
I love you when you’re in my dreams
City noises echo quietly
Foreheads bumping and nose touching
Loud car doors and a 20-percent tip
I love you all night and all morning
I love you in a pile of gravel
I love you behind a brick wall
I love you more than I love tomorrow
Oh, I love you more than I love this
6
Ihad a shitty night’s sleep to match the shitty night that preceded it. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my feet peeking out from under the covers because the heat is blasting, when there’s a knock at the door. I already know who it is by the heavy-handed knock and it certainly isn’t housekeeping.
I decide to ignore it, thinking maybe if he thinks I’m still asleep, he’ll go away. But the knock comes a second time, and then a third.
“Go away!” I shout, not caring if it disturbs the neighbors.
“No,” He says shortly, his voice muffled by the thick wooden door. “Open up.”
I pull myself out of bed, ready to tell him off, fire within me lit. But when I open the door, he’s standing there, brooding and handsome and I’m caught off guard by how human he finally looks. Trench coat on, but not buttoned. Scarf on, but not tied. A fresh red sweater with a white collared shirt pulled taut against his chest. His glasses are perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose. The bags under his eyes are dark and he looks like he didn’t sleep a wink.
I hope he was tortured all night.
