Click, Fire, Foreshadowing

Outside, raindrops falling like Adam and Eve, and puddles forming of cumulate remorse. Rafter Sousa gathered his things and exited down the hall.

“Time to get wet,” he thought.

He moved deliberately to the elevator, black suitcase swinging at his side. He pressed the button and waited. He dropped the suitcase and sat down, and he waited. He turned the ring on his finger and ...

The metallic doors slid open. Elevator full. Seven other men and seven other black suitcases.

“Guess, I’ll grab the next one,” he said. And so Rafter Sousa waited. Strange hotel, he thought. Convention of dreary single men. He cracked his neck violently and he waited.

“That won’t do you no good,” an echo from down the hall. The maid.
“What won’t?”
“Being impatient,” she said. “It’s 9:30 hon, check out time. There’s fifteen floors above us, about a hundred guests itching to leave , and only one little grey box. The other two are broken.”

Rafter paused in the staircase to light a cigarette. Fifteen above us, but fifteen below, he told his lighter. He sat down. Click, fire, and instant composure. He tilted his head back and looked up into the spiral of capitalist ascent. They only provide a porter on the way up, he thought. Slick fuckers.