The flooring in American hotels has always had a way of taking me over. When I stare at the designs and colors it's almost like a hallucination planted into your thoughts by a stranger potentially thousands of miles away from you, or they could be across the street, across the hall, maybe standing right in front of you. I frequently want to meet whoever thought of green backdrop with black and white spirals or bright bold blue crescents paired with yellow zigzags. It's peculiar. I tend to guess at faces that would match with artistic choices. Backgrounds- as well. Human beings go through so many movements and standstills that make up who they are. Perhaps a broken man who has lost love would paint with dark colors and with violent motion. And a woman that has just had a big break in her career might want to paint with happiness and basic designs. My own artistic choices always reflect how I choose the backgrounds. When I was a child, I felt like I could paint anything in the world. My medium, however, is music. I can make up melodies note by note, each one becoming its own stroke. After I turned 18, I fell into a dark place. My approach to the piano has been a complicated relationship in itself. Some days, I couldn't stay away. Some days- or weeks- I hid without a word and without a note. I could blame it on many things. I could blame it on Oliver, if I truly wanted to. It's the easiest blame, isn't it? Everyone told me for years that it was his fault. It was him who ruined me. As much as I know they meant well, I also know that I'm not ruined. I don't believe it was entirely his fault. He did what he had to do. He had to paint his own design. All that I know for sure is that my design is finally being put back together.
"5-0-6," my father stops in front of me and grins like a child. He adores hotels. I couldn't tell you exactly why. Perhaps it's the room service. Maybe it's never having to make your own bed. It could just remind him of an old home. But perhaps it's to do with the feeling of being free and away; completely unbounded. It's an escape. At least, they usually are. I'm not sure if this trip will be an escape for me or a prison.
I smile at him, but my heart sinks and a panic sets in as soon as I feel an empty space at my seam. "Hell, Dad, I think I left my glasses downstairs at check-in," I start feeling all over my pockets and at the hem of my shirt. Nothing. "I'll be right back." He waves me on as I turn for a light run.
I slow for a moment when I see a few people walking my direction, and for some reason I begin to think of chance. Along your life, there are certain moments that are interchangeable, little anomalies that you can't guess would be important. Yet, they are, in moderation, the most important. My father used to say that, but it was inevitably followed with the idea that every interchangeable moment leads to the same path. No matter how hard you try, the end of your day always stays constant.
"Sorry!" I almost run into a woman with golden hair. She looks particularly familiar; built like an Olympian, taller than most women I've met, and her eyes; her eyes almost look like they could cut out the stars in broad daylight. Sharp blue.
"Oh, don't worry. I was just going here-" After gesturing to room 511, she glances around. At first I think she might tell me a secret. "Are you on this floor? I don't think we have met."
A strange sound escapes me this time in almost a half-confused, half-unsure breath. "What do you mean?"
When at an amusement park and seeing a rollercoaster that looks amazing, is wanting to ride that rollercoaster insane? Of course not, so paying for the ticket, getting in line, and getting on the ride is expected to be fine. It's a ride built to be safe. What could go wrong? Then it's the grand moment; the drop. The fear that sneaks up just as the cars start to climb the tracks takes over, and you start to feel your body power up like an animal being preyed on. It's a well known feeling. One that I am starting to become all too familiar with in this moment. Now, don't worry, the hotel hallway didn't just start climbing tracks and announce an ultimate drop of 180 feet, but the neurons in my brain firing like crazy were telling me to run. The fear and reality had just set in. I could barely understand what I had just heard.
"I'm sorry-" my voice sounds so bizarre. "What did you say?"
"The floor; it's rented out to the North American Institution of Archaeology. They always rent it for the entire three months, so that the board and underlying members can have a guaranteed space to work and live," she smiles as if the words she spoke were supposed to reassure me that the inevitable plummet downwards would be painless and simple. Oliver's hands are at the brake switch, and all I can imagine is his smiling face as he lets me fall. The ending to a ride I never should have gotten on. "I'm Anne, by the way. Have we met? You don't look familiar," I watch as she rummages through her purse. In solid gold, three letters are sewn into the leather:
A.L.H.
"Right- of course. Uh-" Fuck. "I'm Samuel Perlman's son, Elio," my voice holds conviction, but my thoughts are across the world, spiraling in Italy. The possibility of running into Oliver is so much higher than I expected. It's completely unavoidable. For all I know, he could be standing directly behind me right now. I turn to look over my shoulder. The empty hallway sends a shiver through my spine. If I keep looking back, one day it won't be as vacant. When I turn my head back toward Anne, I notice a concern look in her eyes. I quickly try to cover it up, "It's nice to meet you." But she sees through it.
"Are you alright?" she tilts her head as she slides her key through the lock of room 5-1-1. The lock clicks. The sound triggers a memory of Oliver facing me as he unlocked our room together that final weekend we were together. I knew the day like a song I had listened to for years. Oddly, it never got triggered by anything. Why this time? I stare at her for a moment as she waits for me to answer. I never do. I start to back away from the door and turn, feeling her eyes locked on me as I walk away. I reach the elevator at the end of the hall, and behind me, a quiet voice meets hers in the hallway. A voice that reminded me of another moment with Oliver. If I'm honest with you; every moment with Oliver. All except the silent ones.
