I THOUGHT I’D WON.
The motel sat just off the highway, tucked behind a gas station and a fast-food place that had gone out of business years ago.
Thin curtains hung in the windows, not quite meeting in the middle.
The smell of old smoke clung to everything — the walls, the carpet, the bedspread.
I stood in the doorway with my bag and tried not to cry.
THE MOTEL SAT JUST OFF THE HIGHWAY.
That first night, I lay awake listening to traffic rumble past on the highway and wondered when, exactly, my marriage had turned into this.
When had I become someone who could be shipped off to a dump like this to make room for someone else? When had I stopped mattering?
“Maybe I should’ve stayed in the garage.”
By morning, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started planning my next move.
I LAY AWAKE LISTENING TO TRAFFIC RUMBLE PAST ON THE HIGHWAY.
Stage one started with my morning coffee.
I balanced the paper cup of vending-machine coffee on the windowsill and took a photo.
Behind it, the parking lot overflowed with trash — crushed soda cans, a broken chair, something dark and unidentifiable near the dumpster.
A little noisier than I’m used to, but I’m making it work, I captioned it.
I tagged him and Lorraine.
IT STARTED WITH MY MORNING COFFEE.
An hour later, I noticed a roach skitter across the bathroom floor while I was getting ready for work. It moved fast, confident in its territory.
I didn’t scream or try to swat it.
I took a picture.
