The Corridor's Downhill Tilt

The corridor slopes, a gentle downhill bend in the hotel hall. I hold the brass key; it transfers a heat I can feel deep in my palm. It is too warm. A woman stands near the number 312 sign, her coat a deep, dusty green. She turns her head. Her mouth parts, and I recognize the curve of the jaw, the precise spacing of the teeth. She does not look at me, but past me, toward the carpet pattern. Then her skin wrinkles, smoothing into the face of a girl I knew when I was seven. She reaches out a small hand, tracing the dust film on the banister. I smell lavender and old paper. I step toward her. She simply stands there, her weight fixed to the floor. The hall remains quiet.