CHASTITY

After my shift was over, I said goodbye to Andrea and hit the road north toward Belvedere and what I hope will be a new positive step in my life. No reason to stay around here tonight, so with a few extra bucks padding my wallet from Julie, I can manage a motel tonight.  Andrea promises to come and see me soon, then quick hugs, and I’m off.  Three hours away suddenly feels a lot farther as we muttered our goodbyes.

I turn the knob on the radio and I’m met with static.  I punch at every button.  Static.

Great, even the radio is giving up on me.  In the silence, it’s impossible to quiet the voices in my head as I drive.  I try to fill the silence by singing the entire sound track to The Little Mermaid half the way to Belvedere, but I can’t stop my mind from playing over and over the moment with Magnus today.

Yeah, that moment. The moment when he bent down and his lips kissed the top of my head. Like he was entitled. It was unlike any sensation I can describe.

My legs shook, my panties took a direct hit, but it was more than that.  More than just lust.  For a fleeting moment, I felt wildly connected to him, like he was somewhere I could be safe. And I wanted him to pick me up and carry me off, cradled against his bulk.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I got to the back room and I heard the bells on the door signaling his exit.  Thank God no one saw, because I wouldn’t know what to say.

And what he called me.

Angel.  Babygirl.

Thank goodness I’m heading out of town today because I can’t ever face him again. 

I’m not sure why, but I can’t. 

And it’s not fair because if I can’t even bear to look at him then why do I see his face every time I close my eyes?  I hear his voice; I feel his hand on me.

Imagine.

His fingers.

Inside me.

Stop.  I shake my head and roll down the window of the Corolla, hoping the November wind will clear my mind.

He ran away too.  So that confirms it – it was definitely a mistake.  I must remind him of someone.

Could even be a daughter.  He’s probably got ten years on me at least.  And I’m younger looking than my age, people often mistaking me for a teenager.

Maybe she died.  His daughter.

Yes.  That’s it.  I remind him of a daughter who died and that’s why he acts that way.  I am misreading all of this.

So why are my nipples like rocks at the mere thought of him? And why is there a near constant SOS throbbing between my legs?  What is happening to me?

It’s nearly 10:30 p.m. when I pull into the motel where I’ve made a reservation.  I hop out of the car and stand at the counter until a twenty-something guy emerges from the back office, licking his fingers on one hand and staring down at his phone in the other.

“Help ya?”  He doesn’t look up.  Customer service at $19.99 a night isn’t what it used to be.

“Yes, hi.”  I force a smile.  I heard that’s the way to make your voice friendly, put people at ease.  “I have a reservation.  Chastity Stewart.”

He looks up slowly, mouth gaping, eyes less than focused.  There is a hint of something in the air, and from the reddish slits that look back at me, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the smell wafting out from the back room from where he emerged.

“Reservation?”  His gaping mouth becomes a goofy smile.  “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”  He chuckles and looks puzzled when I don’t get the joke.  “Guess you’re not just reserving a room for an hour then?  We have our one-hour special for $9.99.  No ID required.”  Another drawn out chuckle; he clearly finds himself very amusing.

Tears nearly burst from my eyes.  This is what my life has come to.  I wish my mom was here, right now, just to help me get through the next few minutes and tell me everything is going to be all right.  But she isn’t here, and I’m not sure everything is ever going to be all right.  I rest my arms on the counter, try to avoid sniffling, and try to speak in an even tone that doesn’t give away how lost I feel right now.  “I’m renting it for the week.” I grab the pen off the counter and swallow the lump in my throat.

He narrows his eyes at me with a lethargic look up and down, licking his teeth, then this grin spreads over his face and he nods. “Got it.” 

He shoves a blank information card in front of me.  “Fill this out.  If you’re going to have a lot of people coming and going from your room,” he winks and drags dirt-encrusted fingers through hair that hasn’t seen shampoo for a while.  He lowers his voice, leaning in as though we are sharing a secret. “Just watch out, the cops have been trolling us the last few days.  Quota time, I guess.  Couple girls went for a ride downtown last night.  If you need any supplies, just let me know.  I’ve got you covered.”  He nods at me with a knowing grin.

I clear my throat and struggle to fill out the card, taking my time just like my mom taught me when the letters start to dance.  She never lost her patience with my reading and writing, made sure I was able to manage.  Luckily, the clerk’s sense of time is as wonky and he doesn’t seem to notice it takes me a lot longer than it should to complete the simple registration.

When I jab the completed information card toward him, he snatches it from me.  Then he wrestles to open up a drawer under the counter, mumbling something to himself.

He hands me the key. Not a key card, obviously. No, this is an actual brass key on one of those plastic ID rings with the room number.  This is barely a step above the Bates Motel.  Actually, I’m not even sure which I’d prefer.

We manage to finish our transaction without any more need for words, and I’m relieved.  I don’t know how most people do this, any of it.  I find it so exhausting just trying to interact with people, never mind when those people remind me of everything I’ve lost.

With a sigh, I remind myself that tomorrow is a new day.  Bigger paycheck next week.  New town. Fresh start.

No more Magnus.

My heart skips a beat, and I can’t decide if it’s from relief or some twinge of grief.  I think I will miss him.  He made me feel special in an odd way.  When he was there with me, I felt like all his attention was focused on me.  I’ve never felt that before except from my mom.

Not even the stunning Andrea drew his eye, not once.  It was like he didn’t even see her when she would sashay by. And I’ve yet to see another male customer that could manage that.

It’s not that I think I’m ugly, not that I honestly think there is a standard by which that should be judged.  I’m just not much of anything.  Average.  Average hair, a little plump, plain face, quiet. I wouldn’t know how to flirt if you held a flame thrower to my nose.

I’d spent so much time with mom in the last five years, if it weren’t for Andrea I would have had no meaningful human contact at all. 

Unless you count Magnus.

And part of me wants to count Magnus.

But the larger part of me doesn’t because I’m not sure what is there to count.

I groan under my breath as I wiggle the key into the lock of room 112 and take in the stale scent of the brown carpet, damp-stained velvet accented wallpaper, and a general feeling of dread.

I perch on the end of the bed and stare at the square box of a TV, complete with foil wrapped antenna, certain that the faded floral comforter on the bed would never pass the body fluids black-light test.

So this is it.  Home sweet home.