by Adelaide Song on 2024-02-07.
Tags: sprint
Tonight, the capsule hotel comes to me in the form of a lean, smirking boy with a God-awful undercut and eyes the color of ashtrays. I’ve summoned him on the bed out of necessity; between the incense, and the wards, there’s not enough room to fit his spirit anywhere else. That doesn’t stop him playing like we’ve just disentangled, brushing his hair back into place and rolling his shoulders back into the mattress.
“Can I get a smoke?” he asks.
I take one of the still-burning joss sticks between index and middle finger and hold it out. He snags it between his teeth, lit end first, and takes a deep drag- when he exhales, he fills the air with the scent of cheap body spray and lemon disinfectant. “Too good to me, babe.”
“I have to be.” We’re lying parallel, my body crammed tight against the wall to stop a stray foot from kicking over the burner. It’s still not enough to avoid touching the spectre completely- his flesh, such as it is, has the same consistency as the too-cold, too-firm pillow beneath my head. “Still no sign of her?”
“Nuh-uh, not outside or in, swear on myself. Spend a week inside with me and all you do is ask about another girl; if I wasn’t so nice I might start getting jealous.”
“She’s bad news.” Best to leave it vague; word gets around the neighborhood, literally and otherwise.
“Uhuh. She hit you?”
“No,” I blurt. Then, steadier, “No. Nothing like that.”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender, where they disappear through the walls of the capsule. “Hey, hey, can’t blame me for asking. Comes with the territory.”
“Don’t ask. I’ll be gone soon enough, anyway.” Seven minutes to midnight; seven minutes til we’re home free and clear.
“But I like you,” the genius loci sighs, trailing a hand down my shoulder. “Sure I can’t help some other way? We can call it half-off. For a friend.”
His free hand inches downwards, thumb plucking at the holes in his torn stockings, and the old, sick feeling starts to rise in my stomach again. “Thanks. But I’m taken.”
“You’re no fun.” He shakes his head and his hair turns into an indistinct smear of blonde, the spirit losing cohesion as the incense begins to burn low. “Gimme a call if that ever changes. Promise?”
“If you say so.”
The hotel laughs again, and the flame of the burner goes out. He’s gone; and in seven minutes, I’ll be gone too.