Sorry it's been so long! I'm really struggling with readjusting my schedule, but I'm trying to do better (:
7. The Other Woman
"There's the whore," Rose comments one morning as we walk from one room to the next.
I glance over, squinting against bright sunlight.
A small girl with long, silky-straight black hair and platform shoes walks up with a man in a suit. Her arm is looped with his, and she's smiling gently. But like everyone else around here, her eyes are filled with heartbreak.
The man is shifty, glancing around and tapping his fingers quickly against the BlackBerry he has in his hand.
I watch as the odd couple find a room and disappear inside.
"The man's the whore or the girl?" I ask Rose.
"Both," she replies simply. "But only one of them is a prostitute. And it ain't the man wearing a thousand dollar suit."
"Oh."
Rose nods and knocks on the next door. "Housekeeping!" she calls.
"Do you know her?" I ask.
Rose glares over at me sharply. "Do I look like the type to be on a first-name basis with a whore?"
"I was just asking," I say blandly, before looking back at the closed door the girl and suit-wearing man disappeared behind.
"He's married, you know," Rose adds, unlocking the room door. "That's why he comes all the way out here, so no one recognizes him. Fucking pervert. I hope his dick rots off."
My stomach kind of roils in disgust, not necessarily at what Rose has said, because I've heard worse. It's just the thought of him having sex in this ratty motel, on a brick-hard bed with a girl who makes her living sleeping with other men just like him. And maybe his wife is at home, waiting for him with hopeful eyes and a dread-filled stomach. Maybe kids, too.
I don't understand it. I don't understand what's so much better about this sex than the kind he could get at home, from his wife.
I don't understand men.
Maybe I don't want to.
Tonight, when Edward comes around, I don't say much.
He gives me a cigarette and tries to cut up with me a little, but I'm in no mood.
He's got ruffled hair and wrinkled clothes and lipstick stains again.
Tonight, he does kind of make my stomach sour.
The Whore, as Rose deems her, comes every week with the same man on a Tuesday. They arrive at noon and leave at three, and Rose and I have to go in and clean the room right after.
I beg her not to make me change the sheets, so Rose does it herself, rolling her eyes at me, but she doesn't ask why. She never does, so I'm grateful.
The girl's name is Alice, I learn from Rose, who is actually on a first-name basis with her.
Rose says Edward is friends with her, which I think probably means Edward uses her services, too. But I don't have the heart to ask Rose. I like him too much. I don't want to think any less of him by knowing he's skeevy that way.
It's been three weeks.
I've already got my first paycheck, and I float to heaven.
I really do.
I see Alice for the third time.
But today, when they go into the motel room, the man storms out only a second later.
I see all this because I'm outside, dumping the trash for Rose because it's too heavy for her. It's too heavy for me, too, but somehow, I manage.
Alice comes outside with no shoes on and her mascara running. She's crying, and she really does look hurt.
I feel a little sorry for her so I ask her if she's okay. It's the least I can do because I know no one else will do it. And I know how it feels just to want someone to care, even if it's just for a second.
Her tear-filled eyes find mine. Up close, I see she has a few freckles on the bridge of her nose. She's striking, all delicate features and beauty-queen eyes. "He was my ride home," is all she says.
"I'm sure Mrs. Cope could call a cab," I reply gently.
Alice shakes her head, and her lost eyes wander. "Does… which room is Edward's?"
"That one." I point. "But he's at work, I think."
Alice breaks down again and starts sobbing. She cries like a little child would, with her arms hanging limply by her sides.
I pat her arm because that's what Grandma always did with me.
Alice twists until she's holding my hand tightly. Her fingers are clammy and cold, and she's really squeezing. "I'm sorry," she sobs fiercely.
I don't know what to say so I don't say anything at all.
"I'm just…" Alice blinks at me, more tears spilling over freckled cheeks and a surprisingly young face. She whispers in a musical, soft-sweet voice, "I'm just tired of being the other woman."
Thanks for sticking with the weird/infrequent updates! I'll get this college thing figured out eventually ;) oxoxoxoxo
Enjoy your week!
