borne back ceaselessly into the past

I chose this hotel because it has author themed rooms, though which author you end up with is a matter of luck. To my delight we end up in the Fitzgerald room. There’s even a worn paperback of The Great Gatsby on the table by the bed, sitting next to a green-glass lamp.

I say something about the green light and he just stares at me.

“What are you talking about?” he asks after the pause has gone on too long.

“Gatsby,” I say, holding up the book.

“Isn’t that one of those boring books they try to force you to read in high school?” he asks. It’s more dismissal than question, he’s already turned his attention to the rest of the room.

“Boats against the current,” I murmur to myself as he tries to figure out the buttons on the television.

It is in this moment that I realize we’re not going to last.


About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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