9.

So she's on the bed.
I'm across the hotel room, looking at her in the mirror.
The reflection rolls over, lifts the receiver.
No dial tone.
Place is a dump anyway.
She gets dressed.
Slowly.
Half dressed, with too much skin showing.
Still a reflection, she heads for the door.
Glancing over her shoulder.
Glaces at my reflection.
She speaks.
She's looking for a payphone.
One question later, she's no closer.
Two questions later, she's paying the machine.
Slowly.
I'm leaning on a lamppost near by.
Everything in hyper detail.
I see gum on the receiving end of the receiver.
She doesn't.
Picking it off, a slightly revolted look on her pretty face.
She dials, and I can hear each tone from where I stand.
From here.
She flirts. And whines. And giggles. On the phone.
And purses her lips in my direction.
Air kisses.
I turn away, headed back.
To bed.
To denial.
She will follow.
As we hotel lovers do.
As I do.

It may not be conventional, but neither are we.