The TV was a Zenith; the radio wasn't at all. The carpet, a sinister floral swirl, was pocked with cigarette burns, as was the top and, oddly, the sides of the flimsy dresser. Otherwise, the room wasn't half bad. The sheets had actually been changed. The bathroom had a fresh towel. The toilet
flushed and refilled. For twenty dollars an hour I could watch all the porn flicks my heart desired. The comforts of home.
I could hear the door opening in the room next to mine, the squeak of bedsprings, a metronomic thumping of the headboard against the same wall my headboard rested against. "Too big," a woman's voice kept saying in a relentless monotone. "Too big." All night long.