" We only think, in the Form of Crunching Numbers

In Hotel Rooms, Collecting Page Six Lovers. "

I guess it was part of my job description to be as visibly uncaring as possible. It's not a hard task for me; hell, I've mastered that part of the job about five years in advance before I landed this gig. All I needed to perfect it was just to add the right amount of droop on my lids, the never pay a second glance to any pair of eyes that cross mine, and finally only say the minimum of what is needed. If I do anymore or less, I would not be doing my job right. Wouldn't you come to expect that sort of treatment from the guy who works the front desk in cheap motel?

In my comfy desk chair, I watch people come and go like ants from a nest, that's all I want to see these pests as. The procedure they follow never changes, just like ants: they give me their names, pay for their stay, sign a few things, and that's it. As long as I do this, everything goes smoothly and I get my pay check at the end of the week. Their intentions are the farthest thing from my mind, even if I can get an idea of it just by the first glance. These humans come in like ants with only a single purpose, and I've seen it all from these bugs.

This little ant nest was built beside some forgotten road in the middle of the desert. How I survive commuting, that's beyond me. How do I even survive the graveyard shift then? Hell if I know... That cheap bimbo who works the shift before me took up a second job of sticking her serpent tongue down the boss' pants; she needs that early shift if she has a second job. Maybe that's why I only wish for the worsted whenever I take notice of her existence.

Just to clarify, the grave yard shift isn't all that terrible to me. Personally, I'm used to being awake at mind numbing hours well after midnight. You get used to dealing with truckers who have strung their sanity to unhealthy degrees through coffee and stimulants. The one-night standers ,who show up when the clubs close, have stopped phasing me entirely. Not even the shady guy covered in blood, no matter who's, lost his impact after the third time. Nothing comes as a surprise when you work that grave yard shift. That silicon double-D would have crapped her expensive panties on her first night.

As part of my job, I see them all through with cold eyes and monotone directions. I make no verbal judgement and no visual signs of approval or destain. One thing though, always made my insides burn. Nothing ever good came from it, just nothing but more trouble for me when it's over. Damned are those One-Night standers. They walk in one of two ways: Drunk and loud, or deceitful with cruel intentions. One night of faking love that leads to a hell of a morning for me when I have to shove them out of their nest of lies.

As long as they had that one rewarding night, the next day wasn't their problem. In a way it wasn't, but in a lot of ways it was mine. I give them a bed to keep themselves comfy in their temporary passion, and they give me tears and screams when I say I need it back. The women cry to me when they wake up alone in that soiled bed, the men scream after they fail to locate their wallets. Why give me the grief? I'm not the one who made lied and tricked them, just the person who gave them that dirty bed." I don't really care if you were in love...just get out. "

Ugh. . . the woes of working in a hotel . . . and it never changes.

One night, I was able to witness a welcomed change to that dreadful pattern. Looking back on it, that night was one of the few moments where I found some actual worth in my job. The slime of human nature was completely forgotten that day, and I couldn't find a single flaw in the nature of ...love. It wasn't a faked smile or slurred pick-up line with vile breath; those two let me see that infamous 'spark' between them.

Well after the hour of midnight is when they arrived. I nearly spat at the sound of that door bell when they walked in. A silent prayer left my lips before my usual wall of indifference went up; I was praying for this to not be the usual. Joined at their hands, those two walked through the door. My eyes followed their usual path from my book to eye them down. Two men had walked in, their ages just nearing adulthood. Nothing special about that for me, I've seen an old man walk in with a goat...( that was beyond strange ). Usually when two people walk in at this time of night, and if they choose this dump; it is logical that their intentions are not of pure nature. Why else would they open that damned door at three o'clock in the morning?

" Thanks for the Memories

Thanks For the Memories .. .. .. .. "

The glare from my glasses always seemed to hide the way I looked at people. If they could see the coldness in my pupils they would have turned right around, and yet those two walked right in, fingers intertwined and with goofy grins plastered all over their faces. The subtle blush shared between them was all the more visible the closer they came to my desk. All I could think of what how this was sounding like scenario number five: drunk and horny, but not loud and obnoxious. Scenario number isn't one of my favorite ladies and gents...

I've had my fill of that one, and it took all my will power not to have it upchucked each time I tasted it in the air. The faces never varied in this situation and it was always a pain in my ass to just look at them. Horny teenagers, usually arriving fresh from a party, with the fresh smell of booze coating their tongues. A foul stench seemed to linger with every word they sent my way, another stomach-churning factor that made me loathe this scenario. On the inside I was building my defenses against all the toxins I would soon bare witness to.

The one with the red jacket led the way towards my desk. That happy grin plastered all over his face was enough to tell a novel with me. . . one I haven't read before. I've read the ones about how a lyer tricked his prize into giving themselves to him. . . . , but I have yet to read this, who's pages are coated with joy and some forgotten emotion to me. Expected was that over-polished charm, but it wasn't there, nor was the rehearsed charisma that I gagged myself on. When he walked from away the other man, there was nothing about him that was text book to me. His steps were even and held a steady pace, his demeanor never faltered under my dissecting gaze, all that I could gather from his short walk to my desk did not fit into any sort of mental mold. The closer he got, the more I curious I became of this man with gelled hair. With every step he took, his intentions became all the more ... hopeful.

" How much for a night? "

. . . . He isn't drunk. . . but...

On the inside, I was a bit relieved to hear those words. Those were the words of a sleaze ball just there for a quick fuck. The inner schemas of my mind were preserved... now it was my turn in this guy's game. My arms moved like a robot as I grabbed my logs. Get him to sign, get the money, and then get ready for an annoying Sunday sunrise. "That'll be Fifty for the night. Sign here please " I instructed as I flipped the book open to a the clean page of six.

This was my third log book, the previous two were packed with the names of the Earth's lowest: pages one through five of this were no different. So they would be the newest stain of dirty ink on a clean sheet of paper. I sometimes ponder if they felt special when they got to dirty up such a pure thing. . . . they always seem that way with everything else.

The pen was taken, and a quick scribble of a signature followed. When he was done, something caught my eye and it seemed as though this guy wasn't going to give me my justice to hate him like everyone else. A common tradition was to leave the names of both parties on the line. I was instructed it was a way of giving joint-responsibility over the room's handling when someone paid for it; unfortunately, lots of people used this as a get out of jail free-card when it came to bailing when the sun came up. My surprise was only increased when I watched as only one full name was given instead of two... one person to take responsibility.

" Will that be all? " the tanned man inquired from me. A simple shake of the head was all I could muster to satisfy that answer. My front remained ever adamant and calm at sight; that did not apply to my inner workings. Inside my head, I was trying to fit a foreign piece to my mental puzzle. Its shape did not fit to any spot within this paradox of human-filth I was creating. It's shape resembled something very familiar to me, if I knew its name I would remember exactly what it was.

He returned to that blond a moment after I told given generic response. They had my entire focus trapped by their perplexing nature. These weren't the mindless drones that I normally guided through this place. Mindless insects didn't have those private and hidden messages with every masked word a piece of some invisible and sappy letter. Bugs with one track minds didn't gaze into each others' eyes and give off a spectrum of emotions inside their lens. What were these two? The way they gravitated towards each other...the way they radiated the air about them whenever their bodies drifted towards the other. Not bugs...not ants...I couldn't think of anything to label these two humans as...but that.

They were Humans... that's all a cynical onlooker could oversee.

I was only given my time to contemplation while I searched out the proper keys for them. There was a way the boss arranged the keys he liked, but I was allowed to use my own method. It was a hassle to guess which rooms were in use, from which ones were free, to the ones that were currently being cleaned. The cleaning lady here liked me, so she didn't mind taking a second to report back to me about which rooms were ready. Of all my coworkers she was the most tolerable. I examined the available rooms, by number there was no possible pattern in them, nor was there any pattern of the rooms. Number five though, it stuck out in my eyes. The key dangled between my fingers as I contemplated it; the image reflected clearly against my glaring glasses.

When I returned to my usual roost, with key in hand, so did the tanned one. Before his presence detached itself from the other's man's, I witnessed a brief flash of anxiety. A flash of fright that lit up the blond one's eyes like a flare in the dark. I almost held a wicked grin upon sight, but the other man didn't give me the time for such sadism. As soon as that little flare went up, it was snuffled out by him. Eyes, it was all about the way they seemed to talk with their eyes...it was so vexing to me.

"Room five. You have it until Seven in the morning..."