CARE BEAR

For a moment, when you wake, you can’t remember where you are.

- A short story by Jan Carson

The wall isn’t where it’s meant to be. The curtains are a garish shade, unlike the curtains in your bedroom, which are a neutral oatmeal hue. There's a painting of the Eiffel Tower on one wall. The painting is not to your taste.

Last night presents itself in slices. Like a trailer for a forthcoming movie, you've unfortunately seen before. There you were, standing at reception, checking in for the next three nights.

“No thanks,” you said, when asked if you'd like to add on breakfast. You weren't going to pay twelve pounds fifty for a croissant and a cup of tea. You'd buy some yoghurts from Tesco Express. You'd drink the free tea in your room.

Next thing you were sitting at the bar, reading the menu for something to do, wondering how you’d pass the evening. The conference didn’t begin until noon the next day. Noon was hours and hours away.

You'd found yourself ordering a glass of red, then another glass or three. A bottle would’ve been better value, but you’d had every intention of stopping at two glasses.

There you were looking your ex up on Facebook, though you'd unfriended the home wrecker three months ago and faithfully promised your girlfriends — Lynne and Alice and Maggie from work — that you wouldn't be going there again. You caught yourself typing out a message: what about giving it another whirl? Then deleting the message slowly, peeling it back like a scab.

Shortly thereafter, thinking I wish I was not facing a night alone, in a mid-range chain hotel. There you were telling the barman, “I'd kill for a bit of company,” hearing the barman reply, “No need to kill anybody. The hotel has a system in place. Packages start at fifty quid.”