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The Church of Cecilia

By Anastacia Grace Goodin

C 2010

The Little Annie Motel

In the small motel lobby the man behind the glass slid the key to me, standard on a ruby red cherry shaped keychain The Little Annie Motel, open for business.

Neon walked out into the mid morning sun in his white t-shirt and popped the trunk to the Benz and pulled our blue suitcases out, leather.

The key fit into the lock, there was a coolness that took me on when I opened the door. Dark blue with a gold framed print of a ship on the wall behind the bed. The further I walked into the room the cooler it got and I could smell lilies. That’s what Cecilia told me I would smell. The pieces were finally coming together and the hairs on the back of my shoulders stood up from the realization that we were finally here. I reached into my bag and pulled out a cool Torero and pressed it to my collarbone. I held it there for a minute, and then I put the beer into the mini-fridge. Then I pulled out another and poured it into a glass and went out to the ice machine in the parking lot. I let the ice run.

Neon disappeared into the morning like a film star. The haze from the city hung like tropical ice cream bars to the East, the beer was cool and huge, in my pocket there were two straws and two metal four leaf clovers. I returned to the room and found him at the desk making the map. There was a river running through that he had drawn red in his own blood that was fading fast to copper brown. From far off down the block I could hear a Spanish ballad.

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