Murakami, Airport Hotels, And Anonymous Stale Coffee

The Hotel was like any other Airport Hotel, with anonymity at its core and function as its sole purpose. Having gotten past the lobby with its false promises of glamor and clandestine liasons, it was clear to the eye, how it stayed cloaked in what could only be termed as a viscous hive of star crossed weary travellers.

Like her.

She had a long layover, so she checked in and was looking forward to a clean bed and for the first time in many hours to be able to lie down, completely horizontally and not just in a pained incline. When the moment did come, sleep eluded her, and, she was faitgue-tinged, overwrought, and wide-eyed awake.

There is something truly despondent about watching televison at 3am. Its as if Network programming itself conspires with the fates. So instead, she made her way down to the coffee shop.

There was always someone bound to be at the coffee shop. That was the thing about Airport Hotels. So, while the Stale Coffee came, laced with a healthy dose of melancholic rhetoric, only the strange light of 3.30am could shine any real light onto it. No, the coffee shop was lit. Well. Just not enough.

And thats how she came to drink the Stale Coffee at a Airport Hotel. She drank, swallowing the bitter aftertaste. After all, life had been far worse. With every sip, she longed for a twist in the plot. Perhaps a Murakami'esque page-turner. A giant toad, a talking siamese cat, a bonfire. In a smokey jazz club or at a Dennys. Being the intriguing woman that chain smoked. Except, she'd have big breasts.

For now though, she had to be content with anonymity.

With clandestine affairs and the dim glow of twilight, comes alive the bitter taste of Stale Coffee. With memories and regret too. Not to forget, tedious to-do lists. And other than a mildly interested narrator, that being me, does anyone ever even notice her?

Thats the thing with Airport Hotels.