When we reach the third floor of the downright sleazy hotel, Dorian hands me a key card, then moves away. "Where are you going?" I ask, suddenly anxious that he intends to ditch me in this collection dump for ruined lives.
"They're adjoining." At the next door down the hall, he drops in his key card. Without so much as a glance to see if I'm entering my room, he goes inside his and closes the door.
For a moment, I linger where I am, my eyes flicking from one dubious corner to the next. The light at one end of the hall is out entirely, plunging it into an ominous gloom. At the opposite end, its sibling bulb flickers, threatening to follow suit. Even the dimmed light can't hide the carpet stains, the peeling paint and the general trashy feeling of the place. It definitely doesn't hide the smell of unwashed bodies, stale cigarette smoke, cheap booze and cheaper sex, vomit, heartbreak and— my eyes narrow and my nose crinkles.
