a random cuck chair appears tank top

the sound of the ice machine dropping cube after cube into your ice bucket grates on you to no end. each hollowing ringing clang not as high as metal, but too loud to be the muted sound of a higher quality plastic. you get too distracted and don't notice as the ice bucket begins to overflow with cold crystalline prisms, spilling onto the ground and the dispenser itself.

fuck.

you scoot the cubes forward under the machine with your right foot in a clumsy sweeping motion. another quiet sigh, just audible enough that anyone within one meter could hear.

you shuffle slowly down the hall, dragging your feet along the dingy, stained carpet. the doors project aimlessly down the walls of the hallway in a uniform pattern before culminating in a harsh-white, windowless terminus. through the repeating doors you hear the same endless cacophony of nightly news shows and sitcoms.

somewhere a boulder rolls up a hill again, you think.

you have arrived at your room, pausing with uncertainty. there still remains a choice, perhaps an unsatisfying one, but a choice all the same. rearranging the ice bucket into your left arm, you dip your right hand into your jacket pocket, pulling out a nondescript keycard. you tap the card against the door and turn the handle.

the door swings open, almost as though acting of its own accord, revealing another short, dark hallway into the hotel room; the hall ends abruptly and you can barely see into the back of the room. a light from the bathroom illuminates the end of the bed. you hear running water and the gentle movements of another human body. past the tv in the corner you see a small uncomfortable, blue-ish chair pointed at the bed, beckoning you forward.