Cove Hotel

I was quite a bit younger when I first stayed at the Cove Hotel in Astoria, Oregon. I think I was Seventeen, and hangovers were and adventurous feeling to explore. The hallways smelled like Top tobacco and mold. I had a view of the rooftops and their feline ecology at sunset. She came in with out knocking.
“Get out of my room.”
“I think this is my room,” I said.
“Oh. Can I have a beer?”
“Sure.”
I took an awkward sociable pull from my beer. Did some casual things one does in a hotel room with a stranger, like re-stack the days old newspaper.
“Who are you?” I finally asked when she began to look through my clothes.
“Heather, got a cigarette?”
“Yes,” I said as she found them. I returned to my windowsill with a new beer. She lit her cigarette which calmed her. I looked at her closely, she was younger than me. Her eyes met mine.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Where the fuck is she?” I heard some one demanding in the hall. Heather rolled her eyes. She then fell back on the bed, her hands above her head, her shirt flopped up revealing her navel. My mind wandered. “Damn it, Heather?”
My beer seemed magically emptied during the brief silence that ensued as I watched her doze. I carefully got another beer and returned to my window sill. The light was fading on the city. I invented a reason to sit on the bed, nonchalantly putting my boots on. She stirred and wrapped herself around me. I began to have trouble with the laces. She sighed deeply and I turned to say something, but her pupils were dancing under her eye lids. I wrapped the half of the blanket she was not laying over her, turned off the light and closed and locked the door.
In the hall a large man asked me if I’d seen a girl. He had wild meth eyes. I said no, and went to the bar.