Well It WAS Called a HoJo...

“I’m starting to have feelings about this gal,” I say.
Mary leans over the railing and peers into the dark of a heavy Florida night.  She jerks her chin toward the woman lurching through the parking lot.  That one?   
I nod. 
“What kind of feelings,” she says, straightening.  “Deep-rooted feelings?  Feelings of longing and/or despair?”
Mary’s been a little keyed up since the flight.
“Feelings of nausea and fascination,” I say. 
We watch as the woman, a tall angular female clad in less than a yard of black fabric, walks through the lot.  The five-, maybe six-inch heels she is wearing give her the perplexing, jerky grace of a spider one shot of vodka past sobriety.  Pale and, well, lunar, somehow, she knocks sharply on a door several down and one floor below us. 
The door opens, and she slips through it.
Mary turns to me.  “What are ya thinkin’?”
“It’s not pizzas she’s delivering.”
“A hooker?"  Mary leans over the railing again, cranes her neck toward the door on the ground floor.  "So suspicious,” she says.  She straightens up, holds out a piece of fruit.  “Meth-addict orange?”
I take it.  The woman who had approached us at the convenience store a couple blocks down had had the hood of her jacket stuffed with them.  “Mmm,” I say.  “Meth-addict oranges are the juiciest.”
Mary nods.  “Nothing says Sunshine State like a parking-lot fruit deal."
We sit down, peel our oranges, drop the skins into the ash can outside our room.
"Ima giver 10 minutes."  Said from around a mouth full of orange.
"That's just rude," I say.  I spit out a seed.  "Terms and conditions are a good three minutes alone."
"You know everything," Mary says.
I shrug nonchalantly.  "I read," I say.
We laugh, eat another orange.
"What did we pay for these again?"
"Three bucks."  Mary pops another segment into her mouth, stands up, and leans over the railing again.  "Door opening!"
I stand in time to see her leave.  Mary hands me a piece of orange, and we watch her adjust a strap or two as she heads back to parking lot.
People never look up.
We watch as she walks from one side of the parking lot to the next,  She pulls a phone out, texts something.  She puts her phone in her purse, then disappears behind a parked car.
Mary tugs at my sleeve.  "Is she doing what I think she's doing?"
I shrug, grimace a bit.  But she is.  The woman is peeing behind a parked car.
"We should stay here more often,"I say.
"Both inexpensive and scenic," Mary offers.  She puts a piece of orange peel in her mouth, gives me a grin.  "What-say we find a new place to stay tomorrow?"
After a few moments, the woman stands, adjusts her clothing and checks her phone.  Another quick text, and she walks through the parking lot and toward another door just a few doors from the first one.
And we watch as she knocks again.