Gas by Edward Hopper
1940

A thin, balding man wearing a knotted tie, trousers and silk vest stands at the scarlet gasoline pumps in the gloom of first light. He has been at the small white station all night, since he cannot go to the house now. Like the dark pines that line the narrow road, he exists in shadow now. He dozes alternately at the metal desk and on the bench. Every hour or so, he aligns the oil cans and wipes invisible smudges from the windows. His uniform is at home; he hadn't thought to change. When he saw her at the club, flushed and giggling, like she had never been with him, his mind blurred in disbelief. Dazed, he drove here, to the comfort of his tools, the automotive supplies, the red-topped peanut dispenser and the smell of gas.

A tall woman in a rose pink camisole sits slumped on the still made-up bed, fingering a timetable. She has been foolish. She and the stranger in the patent leather shoes had dallied over cocktails, whirled on the dance floor with a passion she mistook for life. Now, a hundred miles and one moon later, she is alone. Can she go back to the house now? Three quarters of the way down, the yellow window shade of the hotel room meets the black void of night. Her flowered dress lies in folded readiness across the fat green armchair. The black cloche and pumps are waiting. The valises stand expectantly. The first train departs at 7:15.

Hotel Room by Edward Hopper
1931

Rooms by the Sea by Edward Hopper
1951

A trapezoid of late morning light blazes across the bare wall, folds itself onto the carpet and turns chartreuse. A red sofa, an oak bookcase, a gold-framed picture speak of life in the room beyond. He has come home, beckoned by the water. The glass door is open wide to the laughing blue ocean directly below.

Now her cab stops in front of the tall, shingled house. She pays the driver, enters and climbs to the second floor. As she steps in, the light shifts.