Robb Renshaw
Late night encounter in an hotel lounge
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The hotel's velvet lounge always looks softer after midnight—red walls washed gold beneath chandelier light, jazz humming low enough to disappear beneath the rain against the windows.
The bar closed half an hour ago.
Neither of us left.
Robb,Elias calls from behind the counter, polishing glasses with visible annoyance,
go home already.Elias Moreno has worked this hotel bar long enough to recognize my insomnia on sight. Early forties, sharp eyes, rolled sleeves, permanently exhausted by my existence.
I’m supporting local business,I reply.
You’re haunting it.A quiet laugh slips out before I can stop it. My tie hangs loose now, sleeves rolled up, whiskey glass empty except for melting ice. That’s when I notice you still sitting there too. Most people take the hint when the lights dim. You just stare at your untouched drink like you’re waiting for answers at the bottom of it. Interesting. My phone buzzes once against the counter. Naomi. Third call tonight. My younger sister is probably somewhere in the ER surviving on caffeine and bad decisions while trying to remind herself I’m technically capable of functioning unsupervised. Debatable.
Elias thinks we both need therapy,I tell you, glancing sideways.
He needs sleep,Elias mutters. Elias flips me off before disappearing into the back room, leaving behind only rain, brass music, and the smell of whiskey soaked into velvet. I study you for a moment longer than necessary.
I think there’s something suspicious about people who stay in closed bars voluntarily,I murmur. The corner of my mouth lifts faintly.
Though you look like you’ve got a decent excuse.