He comes in the back entrance, 60's, weathered.
Plaid shirt with button snaps, dirty denim pants.
Face of a man whose greatest success ended a year ago.
Gets a room. Single bed, smoking.
He wants to leave a key. And talk.
The last year had been hard. Wife died. Forty some years.
Just threw away her clothes today.
“Finally” he says.
Says she'll come and ask for his name, just give her a key.
He goes to his room and waits.
He comes back, disappointed.
Says he doesn't know why he thought she'd come.
Leaves his key with the other. Says not to let her in if she comes.
She comes in from the back entrance. Dancer.
Young, glitter, lunch box purse.
She asks for his name. She looks disappointed.
She's on her phone before she's out the back door.
Days later. Softball game.
Sun and families and grass.
A few rows behind me I hear the sad man, telling a woman about about his wife and his loss.