He opens the door to be greeted by the sounds of fucking. He pauses momentarily, captivated by the rhythmic cycles of agony and ecstasy, before moving on along the drab floral print that leads him to the elevator. Inside, a cigarette lies crushed into the greens and maroons and beiges of the carpet. It starts with its jarring orange filter, spilling forth a sea of grays and blacks and browns into a lonely corner. The man studies it as he rides down eight floors to the lobby. He steps out to be confronted by his mirrored self, whose eyes he avoids. He winds along the wall to the hotel restaurant and takes a booth along the far wall, out of sight of the door. At this time of day it is all but deserted and he has his pick. He orders a steak and a pint and begins to look over his notes for tomorrow’s presentation. He figures that once he’s done eating he might as well go to bed so he can be well rested when he lands in Osaka tomorrow, or rather two days from now. He had hoped to visit LACMA while in town, but decides that he doesn’t have the time to spare. He finishes his meal, charges it to his room (a bill he gets some satisfaction out of knowing that he will later submit as part of his company expense account) and begins walking back alone to get ready for bed. This time, the cigarette is cleared and the lovers have gone out for the night.