🔴 Red Lamp Inn – Cycle Two

The memories are priceless.

🔴 Red Lamp Inn – Cycle Two

The rooms stay warm. The coffee’s free. The memories are priceless.

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📍 FRONT DESK – DAY TWO

CLERK

I really hate my job.

Room 7 needs more towels. Room 12’s lock sticks.

Check-ins, check-outs.

It's a new day, sure.

But different sky, same story.

Someone left a condom wrapper in the vending machine tray again. I don’t ask.

We do free breakfast now. Cereal, toast, eggs if you’re early.

The girls take advantage of it. Why wouldn’t they? They pay like anyone else.

This morning one of them dropped her plate. Eggs, toast, the whole tray—gone.

Most folks kept eating.

One of them got up to help.

Her.

Same jacket. Different boots. Hair up with one of those black clips.

Bent down, helped clean the mess without a word.

Didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t expect thanks.

Someone muttered it under their breath.

“Thanks, Cleo.”

That’s when I remembered her.

Room 15 again.

Some guy cracked a lamp, didn’t say anything.

I’m supposed to log it.

Owner’s got a rule — damages come out of the girl’s take.

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📍 APT 2B – DINNER LOG – DAY FOUR

RENTER

TV still doesn’t work.

Tomorrow is Friday.

It’s still on my schedule.

Dinner’s the same. Chicken. Eight beans. Macaroni with sixteen noodles.

The roll got swapped out for rice this time. Portioned from last night’s box.

I eat clockwise. Still.

But I didn’t hesitate before glancing left today.

She was outside again.

Different coat.

Same man as Tuesday. Or maybe not. I couldn’t be sure from here.

He parked on the street instead of the lot.

Stayed longer.

She laughed softer.

I timed it.

Ten minutes, twenty-three seconds.

She wiped her mouth when he walked away.

I wrote that down too.

Then I cleared my plate.

Remote, click, pause, click again.

Nothing.

Still on my schedule.

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📍 WINDOW – ROOM 9 – LATE

CLEO

They all love a damsel in distress.

From the politician on down to the motel clerk.

I’d never had a politician—too new in this city.

They liked the vets.

The ones who knew how to play dumb and grateful.

But I did blow the motel clerk.

Cam, I think his name is.

Not because he was cute—no.

He wasn’t.

He had that lost-boy look. Like he thought no one noticed him.

That’s how I knew it’d work.

He didn’t even blink.

Just leaned back, locked the drawer, and let it happen.

Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t ask again.

It was for the lamp.

He knew it. I knew it.

Would’ve come out of my pocket. Maybe worse.

So I offered something quick. Something quiet.

Made the problem go away.

The other girls talk. We all do, when we’re bored or killing time.

Whispered stories between cigarettes. Fights. Clients. Who got what. Who gave what away.

Most of them call me Cleopatra. Or just Cleo.

Say it like it means something. Like maybe it’s real.

It’s not.

Cleopatra’s not even my name. But I say it like it is.

Because here, truth’s just another shade of the performance.

The motel’s not the worst I’ve seen.

Could’ve been cleaner. Could’ve been worse.

Red roof. Beige walls. Doors that stick when it’s humid.

They try to paint over the smell, but it always comes back.

Bleach, cigarettes, cologne. Desperation.

The front lobby’s got fake plants and a sad little bell.

You ring it too fast and he glares like you asked for his kidney.

There’s another building behind the office. That’s where we work.

Rooms in a line, numbered cheap and peeling.

I like Room 9. It’s got better light.

Next door is an apartment complex. Not nice, but not tragic.

Kids ride scooters in the parking lot.

A couple old women smoke in plastic chairs by the stairs.

One guy grills year-round like it’s always July.

Sometimes a man in a tucked shirt walks out like he’s headed to church, even on a Tuesday.

The regulars here come through like clockwork.

Some girls flirt with them—try to keep ‘em loyal.

I don’t bother.

Loyalty’s a lie we tell between tips.

This street doesn’t sleep.

Noise, brakes, heels on pavement, door slams.

But around 4 a.m., it hums instead of shouts.

That’s when I feel it the most.

The tired in my bones.

Like the silence has weight.

But I get up, brush the crumbs off my thighs, and smile.

Big eyes. Full lips.

Lois Lane in heels.

Game face back on.

Always.