
Cottage Terrace Inn, Room 106
Minutes, hours, days, years pass before you manage to raise up from the motel room bed and stand on your feet.
"Tailar, please. Open up. I just need my toilet bag. Tailar, please. Open up. I just need my toilet bag."
Who is knocking at the door? You imagine a salesman in a suit with a briefcase and he is selling your kind of product. The thought nearly floats you over to the door. You know it can't be, it can't be. But what if it is? Then, you can handle things without breaking down the bathroom door.
"Tailar, please. Open up. I just need my toilet bag. Tailar, please. Open up. I just need my toilet bag."
You try to peep through the peephole. You are too short and your eyes and head hurt too much to look through such a little hole. You interrupt your chant to speak, and you feel the rush of pain return.
"Who is it?"
There is no answer. You think of returning to the bed. You have no energy left. You imagine opening the door and falling out of it and staying there until Tailar drags her ratty self out of the bathroom. That doesn't sound too bad. You open the door.
It felt like minutes, hours, days, and years before. You are sure you stand in that one spot with the door open for at least 10 decades, four generations, two or three lifetimes. You stand there staring at the person outside the door.
"Can I come in?" whispers the person.
You stare.
On the other side of the threshold stands a woman--you guess. The woman is your height or shorter, pretty short, with long dark hair and dark baggy clothes. The ends of her hair blow in the wind. She is standing right in front of you but you cannot see her face. How is that possible?
"Uh," you begin.
"Can I come in?" she repeats.
You decide:
or
.
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