Carpet
Ali Lewis
She hated the way he repeated himself all along long corridors like a bad hotel carpet, and how, like a bad hotel carpet, he’d wait, impatient, at the bathroom door so he could start up again as soon as she left.
She hated the way he positioned himself to force her to cross him when she wanted to leave, and how, like a bad hotel carpet, he’d always know first about people’s affairs and boast how he kept them all quiet.
She hated the way he grabbed at the door like a bad hotel carpet whenever she slammed it, and his habit of leading her straight from that door through the hall to the bedroom, as if he couldn’t imagine going anywhere else.
She hated the way she could easily see him in a Rotary Club or Masons’ Grand Lodge, and how, like a bad hotel carpet, he was the same in the bedroom as he was in the bar, as he was in the bedrooms of all of the others.
She hated the way he’d wait at the doorstep if she stayed out too late, or roll, bright red, out into the street, and how, like a bad hotel carpet, his pattern seemed chosen to mask all the dirt, his surface to muffle her steps.
