It was a small room with a bed pushed against a corner where a lamp shyly lit the walls: white or yellow, you couldn’t tell, you didn’t care. The sheets smelled of strong detergent, nothing floral. You don’t remember if he held your hand when he asked the counter for the budget room.
There was only one ash tray and your arm would graze his, or his would graze yours, as you let the cigarettes die on top of each other.
You liked the way he kissed. It was his way of making up for the lack of conversation. He closed his eyes so tightly, you wondered if he was praying. Hints of sweat hid inside the shadow of his clavicle, which you traced with your finger when he stopped.
“I’m sorry.” It was the first time he spoke.
His eyes were open now and he looked at you with a longing you knew was slipping away.
“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” He flinched when you rose to kiss his shoulder.
“Yes, he’s a good friend, and I know that he still loves you.”
He tied his shoelaces with the same slowness of his kiss, his eyes shut in a prayer you finally understood was a plea for forgiveness. It was a small room with a small lamp but nothing felt smaller than the world in your heart, and the people who’ve lived in it and left.