(no subject)
while eunice unpacked fresh clothes i sat on the bed smoking a cigarette and assessed our situation. we could wonder about the city on our own, call x again, or wait politely for him to call on us. but the thought of waiting in the room through the morning was distasteful. looking around i saw again what i had been to reluctant to perceive when we checked in the evening before. the room was drab. it's high cieling, watermarked and cracked in places, seemed a mocking reminder of the elegance that might have once characterized the entire building. the run was dusty and footworn from trampeling tourists and sheer weight of time. the mattress, during the night, had pressed into my back the history of the many bodies it had borne. this was not dick whittington's magic london...