No one much asks business or pleasure these days. But if anyone did, and if Kristenia answered honestly, she’d say revenge, a real conversation killer.
Her mark wears a new name, doesn’t recognize grown-up Kristy as he takes payment (cash), tells her her room number (22), asks what she does.
Find people, she replies, and, with an oh, eye contact stops as he readies her room key.
It’s a postage-stamp town on Monday, slowest day of the week. No one is in 13, a room already cleaned and not due to be opened until Wednesday. Kristenia makes sure, looking it up behind the desk before using his key to open it, before she rolls in the maid’s cart and tumbles out what it’s carrying. She suspects that some time after Wednesday, someone will change the number on the door.
At three, the country highways are slick and lonely. Kristenia turns up the radio until it’s so loud that, like the best white noise, it blots out the quiet.