The Starlite Inn
‘Lite’ on stars, it may have been, but it certainly wasn’t light on lights. It would be hard to imagine a more floodlit motel anywhere across this great continent. In the dark, featureless region it shone like a beacon. One could only imagine that within one of its welcoming rooms the harsh brightness would filter from without, and render sleep unreachable, despite the stony, still, silence all around.
But stop we did, dear reader, stop we did. Ted himself welcomed us to The Starlite Inn, all five of us, and I see him now, as I saw him then; through my mind’s eye. Who could have thought my lifelong blindness would have been the difference, that night, and the reason why, this late night, I am here to recall those distant days.
Ted, it was, his warm smile, his warm home, his warm lights, (so I was told), Ted it was who held that door, wide, as we crossed the threshold, every bit a Rubicon. Settled in cosy chairs and sofas, in the reception area, my companions marvelled at what a wonderfully homely place this would be, were it not for those lights. I must inform you, even I could sense, the lights inside were every bit as deafening as they were outside, the lights designed to be noticed, to lure you in.
A light, warm, supper was produced somehow, an unusual array of toasts, rices, spreads and sauces. A thousand miles on the clock, though, and we gratefully tucked in to it all with gusto.
Do you know what you would choose for your last meal, should you have the chance? No, me neither, however, some of those rices! Who knew there were so many varieties, and so tasty, and varied. Certainly not my fellow diners, who attacked them all with relish, and with relish.
I have long wondered, since, if they had a chance to register their regret at their choices?
Today I wrote between 01:38 and 01:48. I was prompted by an idea here.
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