Airbnb: welcoming homestay

I wake up due to a buzz. It’s 2past2. Huff.. Up all night again I guess. So I decide to use the towel two days ago I though I’ll never use. I take shower. Finish. Drip-drip drop sounds mixed with a sudden whirr. I put my left feet on the ground. I have an instant desire to erase any trace of my libidinal energy from the shower tray. I go back to out my sirt on. I put the light on my phone. I polish my back-up pyjama. And as I go off the Cape Room I “say goodbye” to the last snore heart for tonigh. The back siloutte of a man invades my frame. He is humming a Ramones song. His name is Colin Frost. A sixty-something-year-old-gay-man who can only pay the rent with keys sold in quartes at the same end of this street. Colin sights as I step forward.

— Did I wake you, darling? — he says in a motherhood tone.

I just sit on the coach tattling no worries sir. He sits next to me whiskying.

— Do yo wanna taste my eggs? No salt.

He stares at me vipidly. Are these hazel crossed eyes formulating me a sexual proposition? Or maybe are they daring for my Spaniard non-onion omelet? Or is it just a question about these ASDA large, fresh eggs?

A half-hour after this awkward moment another coallegues sits next to me. The first one already plonk at my spongeous belly while Colin squashes a Heinz kethup on a fill out poor-made Spanish omelette. He wields a plastic fork. He offers it to the other as My Poker Face intervenes the battefield. I felt threatened. The second shruds and opens his mouth. He reveals his name chewing — ... His face reveals kind of suffering. And I ask him about his family. Colin says he got two brothers and one sister. The elder one in Canada. The boys stay in Europe. One is in Portugal while the country of freedom was the chosen one for the little one. The guy right next to me is snooring. I think this is the the last conversation I will have with a stranger about relatives. There is a buzz. Colin stands up and goes downstairs.

I search for a streaming-on-demand media. There is plenty of options. At the end I opt for the cinematic debut of Foo Fighters starring Dave Grohl. The picture is Studio 666. A fictional story about the band moving into a cursed mansion to record a new album. I click play without hesitation.

After 48 minutes I cath some Zs. I wake up due to a buzz. Incorrect password. Third time tonight. I have to go down and open the door. A guy with sicilian accent salute me — Hiya, my name is Salvattore. I have 29 years ? I invite him to entry with a sutile come-in gesture.

I show him the Cape Room from inside and I offer him (the same) couple of towels — It is work? — A tua disposizione — I answer. — Parla italiano? — he asnwers with disbelief. — Non parlo ma capisco un po’ compare — I say. He shoots me. Bang!

It’s almost 6 o’ clock. I navigate through the floors. No one is awake. I cannot came back to sleep. But I have to try. This is nightmare. Suddenly the Chilean girl is watching TV on the coach. It glows all over her body. As an artistic performance. She is