Motel: Steve & Meredith
He was too new to town to recognize the woman with the loose red hair and the ruptured, swollen face scuttling out of the office. Had he known whose name she went with, and to which post, likely his response would've been at least somewhat different. But, as it was, Steve knew none of that. He was sitting outside in a creaking plastic chair, under the yellow-bulb burn of cheap lighting, listening to the soft sounds of a small town winding down for the evening. In a white t-shirt and worn dress pants that had once been true black, but were more of a scummy gray now, with suspenders loose and hanging, he enjoyed the cool sip of the wind that moved along the ancient white paneling of the motel to skim across his face, chest, and arms. It raised goosebumps on skin bared to sunset and it stirred dark blond hair that stood wild.
He had a book folded over his thumb—The Anatomy of Courage, by Lord Moran—an old copy, dog-eared and spine-loose. He'd taken a pause from reading some twenty minutes ago to allow his mind to wander and to let the evening come down upon him with his awareness at the forefront. He was in the throes of this when the woman walked over the ash and asphalt of the parking lot, coming from the direction of town, and Steve watched her as she made her way, slow and lowly, to the office, then, a handful of minutes later, back out.
She had a small bag, but nothing more. She passed by the man in his chair and went up the stairs he sat directly next to. His gaze followed her until she rounded rusty banister, then he listened to her steps fall with their melancholy beat until she came to whichever door was hers. He heard her bag drop to concrete and the sound of her key scraping at the lock, again and again.—He got up. Steve ducked inside his room just long enough to toss his book on the bed and grab a soap-bleached washcloth and a few cubes of ice, then he was up the stairs too, drawing up to the woman from her side.
"Need some help?" She was struggling with the lock, and he gave her a small, warm smile. It was the least he could do. Someone had clearly hurt her. He tried not to make assumptions about who it was—husband, things like that, and instead, turned his focus to helping her, if she'd let him. He lifted the rag with the bellyful of ice. "The ice will help with the swelling."