The motel is silent as death when we walk inside. No conversations, no blaring radios, no sign of human movement, not even the creaking akin to aged buildings; only our footsteps resound on the wooden flooring. I can smell the dust particles and the mold in the air. Among it all is the faint smell of cigarette smoke. It doesn’t feel homey at all, but I’m too tired to complain.
An old woman with specs sits at the reception. Upon our entry, she lowers the botanic magazine she’s reading. Her hair blends with her scalp; fair, pale, wrinkling. There’s a certain bitter criticism in her bleary gaze as she regards us.
“Welcome to Santos. Ten dollars for a room a night.” She drawls, boredom all over her thick, mucosal voice. “We accept cash only.”
I can tell she owns the place from her authorita
