sunchenhua

The Inn of the Eighth Goat sniffed the lodger in 3B, and exhaled into the Sicilian sun the scent of old, tatty luggage and orange blossom lotion. The Inn tried again, dark floorboards listening to the lodger's bare feet as they walked from tiny bathroom down the hall, back into the room. Some wanted Mediterranean white buildings and olives sucked from the fingers of browned men; others, a beach with buried metal coins. Or a red-and-white-checked diner on a quiet highway in dusty, lonely Arizona. Anywhere but here, this bland, four-room inn surrounded by skeletal trees clinging to yellow dirt. It was cheap, the mattresses were thin as wolves