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An Interesting Conversation By Ross Raffin
They sat on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other. The stench of the motel lobby drifted into the room, covering the room with aura of cheap perfume and dirty bed sheets. “So,” she said, staring at the wall, “I assume this isn’t your first time.” He nodded, remembered they weren’t facing each other, and quickly responded “yes.” His shoes, wallet, and cell phone lay in a row next to the door. A hundred dollar bill stuck out of one of the shoes. He eyed the door. “And it isn’t yours, right?” He chewed his lip. She grunted, adjusting her tube top. She glanced at the black, digital clock on the wall. Every room in the motel had the same clock. Even though there were no gears, each clock produced a ticking noise, to remind everyone that time was moving. “You know, I did in all fairness ask for a blonde…” he trailed off. “Why do you come here?” she interjected, ignoring his comment. He began twisting his ring finger from side to side. “I didn’t get much ‘satisfaction’ at home.” “Ah,” she responded. The tube top, a size too large, began slipping again. She moved it up. “And you prefer blondes?” “No, no. I just…usually want something different.” Artificial seconds ticked. Neither person moved. “What about you? Why do you do this?” he asked, fantasizing about lunging for the door, or perhaps a window. And later, lunging for the neck of that damn pimp. “I was told awhile back that if I wanted nice things, I should make my own damn money. Now I can buy nice things,” she responded edgily. “A job like this is probably tiring,” he said. “Yeah, it leaves you pretty exhausted at the end of the day,” she responded. “But richer,” he added diplomatically. “But richer,” she echoed. “Well, it makes sense, I guess,” he said, still twisting his finger. The pale line of a ring tan remained pallid and bloodless. She sighed and turned. He felt the mattress shift under him, and he turned as well. Their eyes met, and neither shied away. At first, a smile almost came to his lips, and then a frown. Her face did not reveal anything, but her eyes did. Many artificial seconds passed. Neither showed any sign of speaking. “I guess this means,” she finally said, “that we should probably get a divorce.”
About the Author Ross Raffin began writing at age 13. At age 14 his writing was legible enough that everyone else realized that he was writing and not drawing. His first successful submission was in The Doors, a religious satire magazine, and then a six-month contract with an online magazine. His most current project is a full-length screenplay. Ross is living with his two dogs, a 24’ television, and a pile of paper and pencils.
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