[Fiction] A mother and daughter arrive in California:
“Our shirts were still sticky and sweet smelling, but the bad, sour side of sweet, when we drove into Los Angeles. My mother had called ahead for reservations at one of the hotels she’d read about, but she said she wouldn’t go there right away.
“‘Huh-uh. Look at us. And look at this car. We’re going to clean up a little first.’
“‘Why? They’re used to it, they’re a hotel, aren’t they?’
“‘Honey, the Bel Air isn’t just a hotel.’ She had the tone she always used when she was too tired to fight. ‘You’ll see.’
“‘Why can’t we wash up there?’
“‘Because. That’s why. You just don’t.’”
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