One afternoon we spent the day downtown, wandering from hotel to hotel. We rode up and down ornate elevators, watching reflections of reflections of ourselves framed in gold. We were infinity contained in a small mirrored box, rising and falling. Rows of pearly buttons winked numbers at us, ringing bells.
We ran through empty corridors of closed doors holding hands, our footsteps muffled by thick red carpeting, our laughter echoing in the hallways’ endlessness. Outside some doors were carts with silver platters on starched linen cloth, and we feasted on cold chicken and chocolate cake. The perfection of that day was in the fact we didn’t have a key: for if we’d had one it would have only opened one of those doors.