Photo: ALONE by Hs7th. Photostream: http://www.flickr.com/photos/31041220@N06/

At the end of Day Three of the conference, after the gathering with chilled beer and neatly sorted little appetizers, after the trading of business cards of varying degrees of texture, font and thickness, he declined a colleague's offer to share one of the peculiar-looking cabs idling outside of the conference center and opted to walk back through the now-silent streets. The odors of fish and garbage lingered in the humid night. Occasionally he passed other people. Their gazes would run quickly across his face and suit, but they didn't make eye contact.

After fifteen minutes and a couple of glances at a laminated street map his wife had insisted on slipping in his travel luggage, he crossed a short bridge and came to where the little pink hotel squatted, its small balconies unused. White-ish curtains moved softly through the open windows, pushed by a light and welcome breeze. He waited at the unoccupied front desk until a young woman in a button-down shirt and black pants came out of the backroom and produced a binder, where he signed his name and check-in dates below the names and check-in dates of others. Without looking at him, she rummaged through a drawer and placed his room key on the counter between them. Then she pointed to a tiny elevator to the right of the reception area. Room 11, second floor.

His room was in the back of the hotel, down a side hallway lit dimly but sufficiently, its patterned carpeting revealing worn patches in a trail down the center of the hall. The room key was a metal key with a large plastic green keychain attached, and the humidity caused the lock to stick for a few minutes. The bottom edge of the door caught slightly on the wall-to-wall carpeting of the room when he pushed it open. Overall the room was pleasant enough. A plastic-framed print of watercolor lilies had been hung above the thin double bed. He opened the window, allowing the relief of the cooler night air into the room. His window faced a stoic apartment building; all of the shades were drawn. Below on the street, he heard the clicking of shoes and occasional laughter. The chatter was indiscernible to him.

Back inside, he laid his briefcase on the bed and hung his suit jacket in the empty closet. He removed his toothbrush from his briefcase and walked into the tiny mauve bathroom. He brushed his teeth, changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and sat on the bed combing through his luggage for tomorrow morning's plane ticket. He felt a wave of exhaustion, mentally calculating the hour at which he would have to rise in order to find a taxicab and arrive at the airport in time. At least he would be home in time for part of the weekend. He laid out the next morning's clothing. He found the remote (nightstand table) and clicked on the room's small television, which was mounted above the bed to conserve space. Some kind of nighttime talk show was playing, but the television was set to a low sound level and lacked subtitles. He leaned back on two pillows and watched until he became bored from not understanding who anyone on the show was. He took out his work phone and responded to a few emails. He plugged his personal phone into a wall charger, fumbling for his plug converter first. There was one voicemail, from his wife. At the end of the message, she had held the phone up to his son's mouth, and he could hear his son making various coo-ing and babbling sounds. He wanted to call back, but the time difference made the hour too late, even for a Friday night. They had, his wife and son, their own established routine in the evenings, which ended promptly at 10 p.m. when his wife, he knew, would likely have already fallen asleep on the couch, the television flickering colored lights over her still face. On more than one occasion, he had come home late to discover her in this position. When he tried to rouse her, she was always groggy and unresponsive, and he had to guide her into bed. She was alert in the mornings; when he awoke at 6:15, he could always smell coffee brewing. His wife would be sitting at the kitchen table watching morning news in her bathrobe, waiting for him. She would never wake him up unless he somehow missed his alarm. She was always moving around quietly, trying to avoid disturbing him before he had to get up for work.

In the hotel room, he neatly grouped his belongings together on the floor so that he would be able to move quickly in the morning. The pile was small; he liked to travel light. He laid back down on the bed and reached over to the switch off the lamp. City light from outside the room leaked in, but it was dark enough to sleep without closing the window. He didn't like pulling shades down when he slept. He closed his eyes, but it would be a few hours before he was able to sleep.