"Yes, Mr. Hoffman?" The receptionist's voice held the usual neutrality, but there was a hint of familiarity beneath it, a subtle acknowledgment that I was a regular. "I hope you're not here for sleeping… only."
I allowed myself a small grin, letting my gaze linger a moment too long as I leaned against the counter, raising an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge. "I am here to sleep," I replied slowly, drawing out the words. "Cats are wonder to the eye. I love cats."
The phrase, "Cats are wonder to the eye" wasn't just a playful remark—it was a signal. A code, an unspoken word that opened the door to this world. It unlocked the hidden, darker side of the motel, where desires ran deeper than simple physical pleasure. Once those words left my lips, everything shifted. The lights dimmed further. The price of indulgence went up, and so did the stakes. This place wasn't for the casual visitor—it was a sanctuary for those who could afford to indulge in their darker cravings. And I was no stranger to it.
The receptionist's eyes flickered briefly, her expression unchanged as she handed me a key. It wasn't the first time she'd seen me, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Still, there was something in her gaze—a mix of indifference and silent understanding. She knew what I came for, even if she didn't care to ask. It was all part of the game here.
"So, Mr. Lorenzo Hoffman..." The receptionist adjusted her spectacles, peering at me over the rims as though trying to decipher something hidden behind my words. "Women are expensive."
"I know," I replied, my voice flat, as though it was the most obvious statement in the world. "They are. Indeed, they are."
It wasn't a question, but she pressed on, as though trying to push further into my psyche.
"So, what do you think of women?"
I paused for a moment, considering her question carefully, the weight of it lingering in the stale air of the motel. "Women...?" I repeated, almost as if testing the word on my lips. "How do I see women? They are gorgeous. Deserving of everything."
I could feel the words coming out more naturally now, each one loaded with meaning, each one slipping from my mouth as if they were truths I had long buried. "They are much more than just a face. They are the embodiment of power, strength, and resilience. But..." I hesitated, looking around the dingy motel, the soft pink light casting shadows on the walls. "...But the women here hold a different kind of beauty. It's a sad kind of beauty. One I've never fully understood. Nor have I ever tried to."
I took a breath, as if gathering my thoughts, trying to put words to something deeper, something that went beyond surface attraction. "There's something that differentiates them from the others. Something that makes them even more powerful, in a way. Something dark... yet magnetic."
The receptionist froze, her fingers stilling on the edge of her desk. She was clearly taken aback by my response, the kind of reaction you only get when someone reveals something unexpected, something that cuts a little too deep. She adjusted her spectacles once more, clearly trying to regain her composure.
"Mr. Hoffman..." she said, her voice quieter now, almost with a touch of disbelief. "You're young and attractive--"
"Young?" I scoffed, unable to hold back the bite in my tone. "You're mistaken. I'm 41."
She blinked, clearly caught off guard by my response. There was a brief silence before she continued, clearly still processing the layers of complexity that I seemed to be layering upon our conversation.
"I thought you were married," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though searching for an explanation.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "No, I'm still a bachelor."
Her expression softened, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something deeper in her gaze. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual indifference. The conversation had taken a turn, and the unspoken truths between us hung thick in the air.
"Well, Hoffman," the receptionist began, her voice lowering slightly, "I was hesitant to tell you, but one of your favorites… codename Cherry… she passed away."
I blinked, processing the information. "Why hesitant?" I asked, my tone curious yet guarded.
"Men here are animals," she replied, her voice laced with disdain. "Disrespectful… filthy."
A bitter taste settled in my mouth as the mention of Cherry hit me. "Cherry… yes. I took her on a few dates. Talked to her when I was lonely." I paused, feeling the weight of the memory. "I paid her well after every encounter… she refused, but I always found a way to persuade her."
The receptionist looked at me with a mixture of surprise and something else—admiration, maybe? "Yes, she told me. You never laid a hand on her during those dates. A rare gentleman in a sea of filth."
The words stung more than I expected. They lingered in the air, a mixture of regret, respect, and the haunting reminder of a woman who had somehow escaped the usual fate of the others there.
"So how?" I asked, my voice steady despite the uneasy feeling creeping in. "Any reason?"
"She died of AIDS a few days ago," the receptionist answered, her words cold and matter-of-fact. "It was a pretty shabby way to die."
"Indeed..." I replied, my voice trailing off, unwilling to add anything more. The weight of the news was too heavy, and I couldn't find the right words.
"There were customers who complained about it," she continued, her gaze distant, almost detached. "Yet… death is inevitable."
"Escaping the fate is impossible.," I said, "when fate itself embraces you and corrodes you from the within of your very soul."
The silence that followed felt thick, as if the truth hung between us like an invisible weight. I didn't know what more to say. There was no comfort in this conversation, only the harsh reality of life, and death, that none of us could escape.
"Her real name was Sonia Borisovna Pavlova," she said, her voice softening as though she, too, felt the weight of the name.
"My Cherry was Sonia Borisovna Pavlova," I repeated, as if trying to make sense of it, as though hearing it aloud made it somehow more real.
"Indeed," she replied, her tone distant but not unkind. "Not just yours. She was... um... bitterly poor when I brought her in."
I nodded, the memory of her vividly alive in my mind. "She was captivating. Beautiful. And sadly, perfect." I paused, my chest tightening. "If my heart wasn't a shell, I would have kept her with me. Only if there was no 'if'."
The weight of my words hung heavy in the air, and for a fleeting moment, I tore my gaze away from her. I felt the old ache, the loneliness that had always been there, the kind that never truly went away. My hand almost trembled as I fought the urge to cry, as if the brief connection I had with Sonia—the rare moments of clarity, of humanity—was slipping away for good.