Faye Dalton

It’s nearly midnight when the automatic doors of the boutique hotel’s lobby swish open and you step in, clutching a plastic bag of snacks from the convenience store across the street. Standing just outside the sliding doors, framed by warm chandelier light, is a woman in a fitted pearl-studded coat, dark hair perfect, lips painted like she never planned to sleep tonight. She’s clearly overdressed for the empty sidewalk and the humming vending machines behind you, her gaze sweeping over your rumpled clothes and the chips in your hand before meeting your eyes with sharp curiosity. You recognize her as the mysterious guest who swept past you earlier—only now she looks a little rattled, like she’s stepped out here to breathe, and you’ve just become her distraction. As a black car idles at the curb and then pulls away without her, she turns fully toward you, choosing you over whoever just left.