Main Menu (edit)
Random Average Blogpmwiki.org |
The front desk telephone rings; a single jangling rattle that conjures memories of Ma Bell and wall-mounted kitchen phones with sixteen foot cords. "Land's End, this is Sarah." The woman standing behind the hardwood front desk of the hotel tilts her head to hold the handset to her shoulder, nodding at the words coming through the line while she flips through a massive bound registry. She is young, competent, unremarkably attractive and vaguely familiar. "Yes, thank you. Two oh two in the west wing is available. You would?" She makes several notes on the opened page. "That's wonderful. Thank you. We'll look forward to seeing you then." It is a Wednesday evening, five twenty-three, p.m.; one hour to the call. A young man walks up to the desk, exhaling relief. Behind him, a young woman (also alone) holds her suitcase in front of her, both hands on the handle, eyes downcast, shoulders bent. They do not notice one another yet, and will not for forty-two more hours -- by which point in time it will be almost too late. The woman takes her key and turns immediately toward her room, never meeting Sarah’s gaze. The young man smiles and chats for a few moments about the weather and the hours of the pub before actually asking directions to his room (more impressive, really, than his fine white teeth). Meanwhile, down the main hallway, up the second flight of stairs, and two weeks earlier, a newer employee named Eldren is using his free time painting a portrait of his grandfather on the wall of the landing. The young man from the front desk stops on the way to his room and stares at what is, to him, the finished work for almost twenty minutes. A gray tabby cat with a missing eye pads by in the other direction, unimpressed. Everything is on time. The phone at the front desk rings, once. “Lands’ End.” Her voice is warm and distant; like a photo of Hawaii. “The Jasmine Room? No, I’m sorry; not on the twenty-ninth, unless you were asking for next y--. You were?” She flips the registry forward. “That will be no problem.” She makes a note in the registry. “It’s a lovely room, yes. Unique.” It is five fifty-four, p.m. Each tick of the clock the clock touches her, for all that she tries not to look at it. Two gentlemen enter, faces shadowed. Sarah knows them better than most, and regrets it. She hands identical room keys to the thinner of the two, avoiding any contact with his skin as best she can, because the Management doesn’t allow her to use tongs with any of the guests. His lips twist in a wry V that doesn’t expose his teeth. “You look very familiar,” he says, his voice breathy and indistinct, like a radio that isn’t quite tuned to the station. The larger man laughs at the joke. Her eyes narrow. “It’s wonderful to have you both here at Land Send.” “Thank you,” the thin man drawls. “When are meals?” His voice inches up her spine like sand mites. “Room Six is not ready.” “Pity.” His mouth drops into a moue of disappointment. “I suppose we will have to put ourselves in the chef’s –“ The gray tabby with a missing eye bounds onto the desk, stalking past Sarah and seating himself directly in the center of the registry before beginning to clean his paw. Someone hisses. It is not the cat. The gentlemen leave the desk. Sarah watches them go. “Thank you,” she says, her voice as still as the empty foyer. The tabby looks up at her, winks his single eye, and bumps his face against the back of her hand before dropping into the shadows beneath the desk. It is six fifteen, p.m. She knows it without looking; heart hammering, palms clammy. Almost ti – The phone rings. Sarah’s brow crashes together. She frowns first at the phone, then the clock, then the registry. The phone rings again and she jumps, reaching for it. “Hello?” “Tell me if we’re going to be together tonight.” Tension air hisses between her lips and teeth. “Geoffrey…” “I don’t want to pressure you. I said I wouldn’t do that. I just want to know.” “I should never have gone out that night,” she murmurs to herself, picking at the corner of the counter. “What?” “Hmm? Nothing.” She push-combs her fingers back through her hair, looking at the ceiling, then the clock. “I’m working tonight, Geoffrey.” “You always work.” “Yes, well…” She closes her eyes and shakes her head like someone fed a sour candy. “Yes. Tonight is very important.” “You’ve said that before, too.” “I’m not going to do this over the phone, please.” “Fine. I’m coming out there.” “What? No. That is –“ Her eyes flick to the clock. Six twenty-one. “That is a phenomenally bad idea, Geoffrey. No.” Nothing. “Hello?” No one there. She drops the handset into its cradle as though it had become unbearably hot and stares at it, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other propped on it while she bites her thumb. Ninety seconds later, the red bulb on the top of the phone lights up. It doesn’t ring. It is six twenty-three. Sarah’s jaw firms and she reaches for the handset. “Lan Descend. Yes sir, this is Sarah at the Desk.” She turns to her registry, all business, nodding to the deep male voice at the other end of the line. “Almost everyone has checked in at their right times, sir. No, your Mister Davis has not yet arrived.” The voice speaks again. She is already shaking her head halfway through, a mix of reassurance and denial. “No, there haven’t been any complications, sire. Sir. None.” Headlights flash through glass of the front entry doors as another guest pulls their car into the turnabout. “Thank you sir. Yes, I’ll be on shift.” Her head dips, as though to protect the next words. “I promised.”
words |
