With an exhausted sigh she dropped the cigarette, stamping it out on the sidewalk. Looking up at the crumbling cheap motel with flashing neon lights she reminded herself that it was just another job. Manuella folded her arms in front of her, attempting to fight off the persistent Toronto breeze. It was cold outside but she was trying her hardest to avoid the room. She was trying her hardest to avoid the fact that at the adult age of thirty she was doing this. Her mother had been right about her all along, and it made her stomach churn to think that she was really everything people said she was. Manuella Santos was just another nameless hooker at door thirteen.
Taking in a deep breath she waited in front of it. No, she wasn't going to knock yet. She would just take a moment to pull herself together. It was stupid that she was getting worked up over something she had done too many times before, but it was just the way things always were. No matter how many times she did this and now matter what she did, she was always nervous when the next job started. It was only a few seconds for her to make herself ready. With one hand she knocked lightly at the door, checking her fist to see if any of the sea green paint had chipped off onto her skin. The other hand was wiping away any eyeliner or mascara that had strayed from her eyes since the moment she applied her make-up in her own dimly lit apartment.
The locks were unlocked one by one, Manuella could hear them turning and she had dropped her hand by her sides. It was better than hearing yelling the first few seconds she was near the room, and she had to admit that it was one of the classier places she had been to. "Come in," a scratchy voice called to her though when she finally opened the door there was no one. Perhaps it was better that way. It gave her time to get used to the smell of old cigarettes and the sight of numerous bottles lying around, most of them fallen in between ashtrays.
Other than the signs of premature death, Manuella was fairly comfortable in the room. That was always a good thing. It made everything easier. The room wasn't too messy. The bed was actually neatly made except for a few old newspapers on the pillows. She managed to move away from the process of slowly picking the room apart, though, as the light to the bathroom turned off and the door slowly opened. Her eyes were glued to the doorway, and his eyes were scanning the ground.
Oh, how Toronto pulled surprises out of its sleeves.