I'm Going to Tell a Story

I hadn't really planned on making a story out of these little ideas, but I'm going to give it a shot. This one's for you, bug:

I can’t hear the couple fighting anymore, even with the glass pressed up to my ear against the paper-thin wall. I sink to the floor and run my hand across the tight-piled rug, staring at the blank wall across from me, picturing the woman in the next room lying bruised and battered on a dingy floor, the man donning his cowboy hat and smoking a cigarette while he stands over her. It’s that kind of place.
The glass I’m holding wasn’t in the room; the glass is mine. I bought it at the Target when I went to get hand sanitizer. The hotel has plastic cups wrapped in cellophane sitting next to a sturdier plastic ice bucket, neither of which I can abide. You can tell everything about an establishment by the kind of glassware they provide in the rooms.
This is the emptiest hotel I have ever set foot in. No coffee maker, no desk, no closet even. There are two twin beds and a television the size of a bread box, a couple of hangars on a silver rod mounted across two brackets. The first thing I do when I walk in any hotel, no matter how nice, is peel off the bedspread. I saw a 20/20 program years ago where the investigators tested for substances on the spreads of ten different hotels. I don’t even want to say what they found on them. If I start thinking about even the corner I had to touch to get it off the bed, I won’t sleep at night. They never wash those things.
I lift my glass as a muffled curse comes through the wall, abrupt and thick. The man’s voice.