Mose swiped his card along the reader and stood, waiting for the light to turn green.
He didn’t like hotels, generally. They were strange, unclean, dishonest places, where people of all sorts lay their heads, the sheets were only occasionally changed, and even more occasionally washed. The places were strange, in-between stops, bland and inhuman.
Hotel workers were always nice, of course. Mose never had a problem with the people themselves, only their reasons for being nice: to bring you back. To think well of the hotel. To love the hotel. To be loyal to it.
It wouldn’t work on Mose. He refused to be won over by these attempted individualist conglomerates. He narrowed his eyes, gripped his bag’s handle a little harder, and stared at the door as he finished the swipe. The knob made a sound like a robot complaining about joint pain, and the light turned green. He turned the knob and walked in.
The carpet was a muted maroon, and the comforter had a bland floral pattern reminiscent of elderly women. There was a television, a phone, and an alarm clock, as well as a miniature iron attached to the wall. He nodded and set his luggage to the side, when he spotted it.
There, on each pillow, was a single green mint. Waiting. An indication the room had been cleaned, though it hadn’t. A signal that he was, indeed, a human to them, though he wasn’t.
Mose walked to the head of the bed, took the mint on the right pillow, and popped it in his mouth. He left the one on the left for later.
In Mose’s mind, the hotel moved above the rest for its humanity. On a future visit, Mose would return to this, his now favourite spot.