Hotel

My hotel room is perched at the intersection of two freeways, and, with the window open to let in the hot summer air, I can hear the comforting hum of traffic. I have just gotten out of the shower and am starting at myself in the mirror, deciding whether or not to shave. I hear a knock on the door: it must be room service. With a towel around my waist, I open the door for the waiter, who wheels in my breakfast cart. He nervously fusses with the plates and flatware. I sign the check and thank him. He opens the door to exit the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he is closing the door very slowly, in order that he can watch my reflection in the hallway mirror. Momentarily, I glimpse the raw desire in his eye. Does his desire arise because of, or in spite of, the limits placed upon it — by the social contract, and by his employer? Still in my towel, I take my breakfast plate from the cart and walk over to the chair. As I approach the seat, I realize that my towel has loosened. I am holding the plate with both hands and so I do not catch the towel. Rather, with confidence, I let it fall. Standing, plate in hand, I feel the gaze of the waiter upon me. I keep my back toward the door so as to bask in the familiar glow of this look. Like the warm sunshine beaming in from the window, cast against my skin, It affords me a blanket of comfort. Yet at the same time it dispossesses me. Centeredness and dispersal, life and death, as part of the same circuit. I sense the struggle is which he is engaged — how long can he remain, peering through a gap in the door, before he is discovered, whether by me, another hotel guest, or his boss? Embodying the struggle, he monitors himself. A space of tension has opened up, a gap that only assumes its potency through the impending threat of its closure, and of its subject’s exposure. Perhaps his body takes shape, as mine does, through the contouring properties of this space. It informs him, gives form to him. Like the billowing curtains, shaped by the morning breeze — arising only because of the wind channel established by the open window and the cracked door. Self-consciously, I stand there, and slowly begin to eat from my plate. The clacking of my fork beats time like a metronome, as the erotic energy — always compositional, rhythmic — circulates through the room with the hot summer air.