Resort

Memoir, 2026

I drive up in the afternoon and check into the villa.

There is dust on the carpet and dollar store artwork on the walls. Mosquitoes hover in the air. The resort is faded and tired, the kind of place that would have looked perfect when I was a child, but I’m not a child anymore. It’s 2026 and I’m 31. The lingering feeling of someone else’s nostalgia brushes at my skin.

I’m working this weekend. Friday and Saturday night. I’ve been staying at hotels for work for years now. Staying next door to couples and families and people there to enjoy themselves, while I leave for the night and come back the next morning with money.