I press my cheek against the window and look up at the sky. There are no stars tonight. Well, I think so, it's hard to tell with the Los Angeles smog. I can't even see the moon.
I'm sitting in Margarita's Place, people-watching. It's a 24-hour Mexican restaurant across the street from the Cecil, and despite it being the dead of night, it's the most alive at this hour.
I've come at the busiest time, 3am. Skid Row just doesn't seem to operate like the rest of the world. This place is full of outcasts, the people forgotten by society. I think I've grown to like it.
You see some interesting characters here in downtown LA at this time. Right now, I'm watching a homeless guy chase a rat out from his makeshift tent along the sidewalk, while another man further down the street combs his beard with a fork as he sits on a flipped over shopping cart.
It's not the greatest of views, but it beats spending the night alone in my apartment on one of these sleepless nights.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window and grimace. I look horrendous. My hair is shoved into a loose knot on the top of my head, with stray strands poking out in every direction. The bags under my eyes make my eyes look ten shades darker than they already are.
I drop my head and focus on my book instead. But it's hard to focus on the words right now. There's something much more interesting across the other end of the restaurant.
The tall man from the elevator has just taken a seat a few tables over, but directly facing me. He's dressed in all black again, with a Iron Maiden t-shirt hung loosely over his broad shoulders. His hair is even messier today. He makes no attempt to push away the long curls that dangle down in his eyes, as though he likes to be hidden behind them. His cheekbones appear to be even more sunken, if that's even possible.
It's been a whole week since we met. He must stay in his room a lot, because I never once saw him around the hotel. I even took on extra cleaning jobs to increase my chances of running into him. I would've checked the system to find out what room he's staying in, but I never got his name. I sound crazy.
My stomach drops as he looks up from his soda can and glares at me. My eyes immediately dart back down to my book. Fuck. Did he see me staring at him? I wait a couple moments before peeling my eyes away from the pages and back up to him. He's still watching me, smirking.
I squeeze the book in my hands and flash him a quick, tight lipped smile. But just as I do so, a leggy blonde woman steps up behind him and strokes his shoulders.
She covers his eyes with her hands and kisses him sloppily on the neck, smearing cheap red lipstick across his skin. I can see her wobble on the broken heel of her tatty knee-high boots. A cheetah-print bra pokes out of her low cut top, and as she bends over to kiss him, a pack of cigarettes and a condom almost spills out.
The man groans and pries her hands away. She drops into the seat opposite him, blocking my view. Now I can only see the back of her head and those awful hair extension tracks. Great.
I let out a sigh and continue with my book, but it's hard. My eyes re-read the same sentence a million times but it doesn't reach my brain. I can't stop thinking about what I just saw. I don't even know why it's affecting me the way it did. I don't even know this man's name and yet, I'm jealous?
I give up trying to read. I scoot my chair back and head to the restrooms. Luckily, I don't have to pass their table to get there, but I still keep my head down and quickly dash across the restaurant, hoping I don't have to make any more awkward eye contact.
I splash a handful of cold water on my face to cool down my flushed cheeks. I need a moment before going back out there. I grip the sink with both hands and drop my head between my shoulders.
