Sean Gilbert

You are watching pornography in the hotel lobby as I wait in line at the reception. You wear tangled headphones pilfered from the airline, even though my Sennheisers are stashed in the bag at your feet. I wonder, absently, how much sound is leaking from the cheap plastic. Though the seats surrounding you are empty, patrons drift through the space, close enough to overhear an errant moan. A woman is pacing back and forth, about a metre from you. An elderly couple walk out of the elevator and drift in your direction. Absorbed in your task, you do not notice any of them. You will not flaunt the movie but you will not disguise it either. A part of you wishes, desperately, to be discovered. Your phone is enormous. The close-up shots will be rendered to scale. You bite your thumbnail and squint at the screen, studious and intent. When it is my turn, the receptionist welcomes me, wishes me good evening, asks how he can help, in a monotonous, melodic voice, as if he memorised the sound of these sentences but not their meaning. His gaze has a strange, unfocused quality. I lie and say it is our anniversary, he nods vaguely and slides two key cards across the desk. I state that my wife and I have been married ten years to the day, hoping that this will pique his interest. He is unmoved. His boredom makes him remote, unamenable. 'I was wondering if we could get an upgrade,' I say. 'You're interested in upgrading your room?' 'I'm asking if you're interested in upgrading my room. You know, given the occasion.' Usually I am better at this. Usually you are standing next to me as we fabricate anniversaries and promotions and proposals. Now, the receptionist only stares, perhaps waiting for me to say more. His irises are dark, his skin an even, honeyed tan. He looks at me the way a plumber would regard a rusted pipe: some unremarkable nuisance. He has seen my type before, people who price their dignity at a few square feet and a freestanding bath. 'We are fully booked,' he states. He glances behind me where another hotel guest waits. 'There's always something,' I insist. I hope my tone is jocular, not pleading. 'In this case there is not.' 'I'm quite a regular traveller…' At this, he smiles slightly, and it feels like a small collapse. 'So we get nothing?' I say, too loudly. There is an edge of desperation that I instantly regret. 'You get the room you booked,' he states. Waits. Then adds, 'And, of course, my congratulations.' Even though he has little – a low-paid job, no prospects – I feel, suddenly, as if I have much less. Sometimes whole economies go bust overnight. My credit card is gold. I have access to the BA lounge. Yet this boy's amused, bankrupting smile renders these things meaningless, makes me feel like a hoarder of ruined currency. With stiff, self-conscious movements, I begin to extricate myself and I think the receptionist is almost disappointed; my humiliation is likely the only interesting occurrence of tonight's shift. He is about ten years younger than me, but I'm sure he considers our differences fundamental. People in their early twenties see their youth as intrinsic, not circumstantial. He regards my age as something that will never happen to him. I do not return to you immediately; instead I pause and consider how to frame this defeat. I could suggest that the receptionist was an idiot or that he spoke bad English or tested my patience causing me to storm indignantly away. I could simply say that they are full, even though, just standing here, you can feel an emptiness hanging in the air. This was once a famous hotel and now all that remains is an atmosphere of grand ruin: thick curtains, dated carpets, a name that people vaguely recognise. It seems the perfect setting for a melodrama on late-night TV, replete with maudlin alcoholics, devastated actors, thieves. Two businessmen sit down on the sofa to your left. They talk and laugh loudly. Men like this always presume an audience, they pitch their voices so that strangers can hear them clearly. I find that I want them to notice the film. Of course, you do not see these men. I watch you and you are worlds away. Maybe you are in the back seat of a used car, your limbs bent, the air thick and humid with the smell of others. You are wandering a deserted stretch of woods, where birdsong blends with the sound of a nearby motorway. The trees reach high, the scrub seems endless, dimensions that make everything, you, even your act of submission, seem small and incidental. Tonight, perhaps, you are in a filthy dorm room, football posters tacked to the walls, EDM blasting from muffled speakers and a queue of naked performers lingering close. A boy with the face of a child and the body of a man volunteers to go first. Half drunk. Anxious. Ready to disguise his inexperience with a show of bravado and blunt force. The phone lights your chin from beneath and the rest of your face is gaunt with shadow. I have watched you watch pornography in rooms all across the world, yet never so brazenly. It confirms my sense that you need this holiday, that it has already come, perhaps, a little too late. You do not look up until I am standing directly over you. You remove your headphones but do not press pause.