I am in a sleazy hotel room. I might go so far to call it a motel room. It sort of reminds me of the studio apartment I lived in the last four or so months of high school. A door, facing I-75; a sort of room with a bed, smelling of smoke; a bathroom area, with a fake set of doors that don't work.
It smells like smoke something awful. I came close to shoving my sheet up my nostrils last night. I am waiting for illicit sex sounds to begin. The tv remote does not work at all. I'm afraid to turn the heat on for fear the smoke smell lingers in the vents.
All this and yet, it feels oddly safe and like home. Even though the curtains have Velcro attached to discourage peeping toms. Even though every small sound elicits fear in the fiber of my being. It's strangely comforting.