"Okay, so you know those plastic balls you can get to put a gerbil in? So they can run around on the floor, they call them exercise balls? This is the same sort of thing, but it's for fish, see?" His breath smelled of his last meal, which must've included a lot of garlic, onions and salami.

Sarah looked at the little man with the pencil moustache and watery eyes and tried her "I'm being polite to you because you're a guest" voice. "Oh yes, I see. That's a great idea, I wonder why someone hasn't come up with that before?" Her delivery was a little off, as she was looking over his shoulder toward the main door, hoping to be rescued by an incoming guest. Or maybe the hotel would start on fire. Earthquakes aren't unheard of in this part of the country.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too!" the little man enthused, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. "Fish need exercise, right?"

"Of course, yes. Otherwise they'd get all flabby." She tried a faltering smile, which he didn't notice.

"I'm telling you, this is going to be the next Pet Rock, I'm going to be rich as soon as I can get some backing."

No convienent fires or earthquakes and no guests were scheduled to check in for another half hour. Salvation was a cookie jar on the top shelf, filled with the macaroons of not having to listen to this smelly little bastard and the sugar wafers of getting back to the smutty romance novel she'd been reading.

As Mr. Rhinearson prattled on and on Sarah let go of that part of her mind that cared. She watched his mouth move and nodded from time to time, this seemed to satisfy any obligation on her part. She drifted…

Brushing past Mr. Rhinearson, Stone Hudson stepped to the counter and smiled dazzlingly; she felt herself go weak at the knees and her heart gave a lusty thud. The phrase "tall dark and handsome" stopped, looked at Stone and threw up its hands in despair. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a commercial for an expensive men's suit store, the keys to his Jaguar held loosely in his hand. His cologne wafted toward her, vanilla and some exotic spice that would only grow in the deepest heart of some rainforest somewhere.

"My reservation's not until tommorow I'm afraid." His voice was a baritone growl soaked in sugar and whiskey. "Do you have anything open for me?"

Sarah's throat froze. Her upper body seemed carved of ice, in stark contrast to the magma of her lower half. She couldn't stop staring at those eyes, like smoked sapphires, the thick black hair that practically begged for fingers to be clenched in it, those lips with the slightest hint of sneer.

Move girl. Do something. Say something. Don't just stand there staring at him, she thought. She couldn't force her eyes from him and could feel the slow burn of a blush beginning to color her cheeks. "Oh-open? Um. I. I don't know. I'd have to check the registry."

He flipped the registry open with a casual flick. "Could you check for me, angel? I don't have anywhere to stay tonight, and it's long drive to town." Was there a hint of innuendo in his voice? She couldn't tell, but she was nodding vigorously on the inside.

She looked down at the open page. "Y-yes. We've got the…" She stopped and cleared her throat of whatever lust-inspired stupidity she'd been about to spout. "We've got two rooms open right now. Would you need a single?" She tried to keep the edge of hope out of her voice; the faint lift of an eyebrow on that equisite face said that she hadn't entirely succeeded.

"I already told you that I only need a single. And besides I've got my room key right here." Mr. Rhinearson said in his nasal whine. "You gave it to me right after I signed." He poked the open registry with a stubby finger. Some small dark piece of crud fell from under his fingernail onto the page.

Sarah blinked and reality rushed back with all the disappointment of a kitten in a box with no air holes on Christmas morning. "I. I'm Sorry Mr. Rhinearson. It's been a long day for me I'm afraid." She gave him a wane smile that she hoped would invoke enough pity that he'd leave.

She didn't have to wait and find out, an actual guest was coming in. A disheveled and distracted looking old woman, struggling to get a canvas tripod through the doors. Mr. Rhinearson left in a smelly, huffy cloud.

After checking in the woman and giving directions to her room, Sarah heaved a sigh that she wasn't aware of and picked up her copy of The Unbridled Bride. After reading the same paragraph a half dozen times she gave up. Mr. Rhinearson's face kept replacing that of Stone Hudson, making her feel vaguely nauseas.

Ted came through, carrying a case of ketchup for the small room service kitchen in back. "You okay, Sarah?"

"Fine. Just beat is all. I'll be glad when my shift's over." She turned and smiled tiredly at Ted, "Just been one of those days." Ted was about to reply when the phone rang, he shrugged in agreement and walked into the kitchen.

"Land Descend, this is Sarah."

The voice on the other end of the line was deep and gravelly, the sort of voice that commanded respect and fear "What color of panties are you wearing?"

Sarah held the phone away from her ear, staring at it with disbelief. The voice, tinny now with distance could be heard saying, "Mine are pink with little ruffles."

She hung up the phone and walked to the time clock. The words "Fuck this place." Were punctuated by the ka-chunk of the time clock stamping her card.

• Sarah At The Desk
• Maybe Not Tonight
• Blue Iron Dreams