The couple to the left of me wore matching blue wind-breakers and blue jeans. I wondered how it made them feel, to match like that. His head was shaved clean and her hair was wound in rows of tight braids close to her head. She was telling him a story about her grandmother worrying about their flight. There was a late-night phone call involved. The grandmother had offered to pray for them, but she would need to know the flight number, the time they were leaving, and the time they were landing. That would help the praying, the woman told the man. Every few seconds he broke into a big laugh and he would rub her shoulder or brush up against her cheek with the back of his hand. His teeth were bright white in the dark of the hotel. He would never get lost in the dark with those teeth. They were excited to be here. I thought they would have a good weekend. I wished them well.
There was a woman in her wedding gown, much older than me, maybe late forties, blond hair swept up and pinned back with pearl-clustered barrettes, who stood still clutching her bouquet, while her husband leaned in at reception toward a clerk. She did not look deliriously happy, like I did on my wedding day. Older brides are just happy to be there, I guess. She looked calm and content. Her lips were tight against each other. She was not breaking out of her home and leaving her parents behind like I had been.
Her parents were there, with her, I noticed. Her father was blind, and her mother was stroking his arm and speaking directly into his ear. They were tiny and old, shrunken versions of the way they used to be. I bet he called her “mother” and she called him “father” and when they slept next to each other, they would turn together perfectly in the night.
I started to cry, missing Thomas’s touch in the mornings. I shaded my eyes with my hand. I did not want people to stare. I looked at the ground. My jeans were dirty. I tapped my foot and waited just like everyone else. People went back to their business, the business of having fun. Someone walked by with a cigarette, and my nose ripened with it. I looked down the lines of people. They were thinning out, things were coming to an end. I shuffled forward with my bag, one step closer to a bed, a shower, a door I could close, a room I could call my own.
I turned to my left and saw a woman standing alone with a bag. She said something to herself, but it was more like she was just reminding herself than having a conversation. She looked tough for a moment, even though she was wearing a strapless black dress held up high on her chest, and heels that sparkled with rhinestones. The muscles in her arms wove through them like they were in a race to the finish. A few men standing in a group near the front of the line turned back and looked at her, quick, like they were monkeys. A woman traveling alone is suspect, I thought. But she looked like she could take care of herself. All of her was this mix of being beautiful and strong. Her cheeks were drawn high up on her face like there were invisible fingers holding them, and her skin was smooth and pretty and tan, and there was not a freckle or a blemish anywhere on her. She was one hundred percent smooth. But there was this bold nose in the middle of her face that was so wide it almost seemed crushed. I thought of a boxer after too many rounds. Like she had taken it, and was still standing. Then I let my eyes linger on her bright red hair. There was something wrong with the way it lay flat against her shoulders. She rocked back and forth on her heels and it did not move. It was a wig. Was she undercover just like me?
The line moved forward again. So far I had spent most of my time in Las Vegas in line. It was a wonder anyone had any fun here at all. It was supposed to be so hilarious and nutty and wild, but it seemed like all people did was just stand around waiting for something to happen, or they were walking on their way to somewhere else.
At last a clerk motioned me forward. His hair was shiny, but thinning, and there was a hole in his ear where an earring used to be. He wore a name tag that said his name was Rico and he was originally from San Diego. That seemed like a lot of information to be giving out to a complete stranger. I did not know if I trusted him like he trusted me. I felt uneasy giving him my name. It was all jumbled up in my head, which name I should pick. Was I Moonie? Was I Catherine? Was I someone else entirely? Finally, I gave him my maiden name. I waited to tell him a little bit too long. He looked at me and blinked a few times. Then he asked me for a credit card.
“I can pay in cash, right?” I said.
“Yes, it’s just for incidentals,” he said.
He typed on his computer. We were both silent. The woman in the red wig was giggling with the clerk two booths over. “I know—can you believe it?” she said. I strained to hear more but I could not.
“The hotel is almost fully booked,” said the clerk. He had no accent. He was flat. He could have been from my hometown. I bet he wasn’t even from San Diego. “What with it being the holiday season.” I looked at him. His face was tan, but the tan could not hide the pockmarks. He was so put together, but so ruined, too. “Most people plan ahead.” Now I realized he was trying to make me feel bad, or stupid at least. He was putting me down so I would accept what he would have to say to me. “All we have remaining are suites.” He tapped at his computer. “The starting rate is at five hundred twenty-nine a night.”