

Hotel Hart

Published by Meredith Miller @Smashwords. Free for distribution

# Also by This Author

A Compendium for The Broken Hearted

Multiple Short stories

# Dedication

I still haven't really started, but it feels like this book should be dedicated to you.

Stephen King said that books are a uniquely portable magic. I don't really know about where this quote comes from or where it goes, but I agree with the idea of books being magic. Not because writers write them down, but because of why writers do it.

A lot of the time, some of my author friends say that it's all about the story or the characters. That's not how it works for me.

I write because thinking about you makes me want to write. I want you to be happy and there's no way for me to make that happen. I can't really do anything. All I know how to do is type down words and imagine people.

Maybe some of these stories can help out. Maybe you'll remember them someday. The happy ones should make you happy. In this deepest of hearts? The sad ones should never, ever have anything to do with you. You should never get sad but if you are, I'm sorry. I'm sad thinking about it right now.

My hope is that you're reading this on a train, under some stairs, or against a windowpane separating you from the rain outside. I hope you're thinking about me. I hope you like this. I hope you like me.

I think I like you. If you read the book, I'll tell you a secret.

# Tricky Turnaways

Paula Rosenthal tutted even though she didn't really mean to.

She regretted it immediately, even before John turned to her with a scowl. He looked different from how she imagined him: in her mind, John Rosenthal was dressed loosely in an elegant golfing shirt. The sun was far behind him, setting slowly, but it was he who blinded her in the sunset. Something about John's tan back then reminded her of salted caramel, or that time they bought ice cream at the beach. Some sand had gotten in the ice cream. Not too much, just enough to make you lick the back of your teeth.

"Women..." he mumbled softly, but she heard it. Typical of him to say. As typical as forgetting that she was waiting for him at a restaurant and going out with friends. The first time he'd done it was the first time she'd called him an idiot.

Apparently whoever it was on the end of the phone heard John say _women_ too, because Paula's husband suddenly added, "No, sir, I wasn't saying that to you. Anyway, I'll talk to marketing about whether another product survey in the Wisconsin branch is needed. Yes, sir, alright..."

It was supposed to be a romantic getaway, before the brunch with their Virginia friends, but here he was talking all about work. He hadn't even appreciated how long it had taken her to curl her hair. He'd just looked her over, said, "Sexy," and walked off. After seven years of marriage, a person needed more than "Sexy". When was the last time he'd smiled with her? Not at her, but with her?

Paula looked out through the car window as John placated his boss. They were weaving along the narrow road with rock to their left. On the right, where Paula sat, gaped a sheer drop separated from the car only by a knee-high metal barrier.

The car itself was a fancy sporty Mercedes-Benz. Model SL-Class, 2006.

"Nothing too fancy," John had said when telling her about it the first time. Seeing him that excited made Paula wish that she'd gotten popcorn. That was many years ago.

Now, Paula turned around to check on her husband. His free hand gripped the steering wheel loosely, and the noodle-haired woman watched in horror as the car veered slowly towards the rails on the right and the deathly void beneath it. The Atlantic Ocean.

"John..." she whispered.

"Yes sir, so when I talked to manager Smith from the national Committee o-"

"John, the road!"

Her husband veered over sharply, righting his course.

"No sir," he said while glaring at her, "nothing at all." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and Paula assumed that his other hand, the one holding the phone, would be the same way.

When he'd finished his call, John finally turned his attention to her, but it wasn't in the way she'd envisioned earlier that week.

"Why'd you shout like that?" he fumed.

"Oh I don't know, maybe because I care about my life?"

"No need to shout at me, I had it covered."

"Not shouting!" she exclaimed before she could get herself under control. "Look, I'm just worried about how often you're on that thing while driving, okay? I don't want you to get hurt, Johnny."

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, this again. Fine. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Yeah, great... wait, you going to light that?"

"It calms me down."

The click was immediately followed by an exhale.

"Oh, for chrissake... alright, have your smoke. I've got to get a new car anyway, replace this piece of crap. We've had it for way too long. Did you see James' new thing? 2016 Extera, drives like an angel."

Just then, the navigation on her phone announced that they were 1 km away.

"We're almost at the hotel," John said. What, did he think she was stupid? Why did he keep repeating that damn GPS?

Paula turned to him, seeing the scowl. He probably didn't even know how much stress she was under.

"Shireen was fired last week," she tried, playing with the hem of her triangle-sleeved coat and looking out at the night's coast.

"Uhuh."

"Boss said that she was thinking about cutting staff some more."

"Thass great. Too many companies are hiring people nowadays. It gets them into all sorts of nasty business."

She didn't reply.

The car eventually drove into a small town. A sign said _Welcome to Hart, Virginia_ In large capital letters. Somewhere in the distance, a lighthouse shone bright.

"This is the town?" Paula asked, and her husband looked confused as well. It was tiny, and Paula felt pretty confident that few of the locals here would have ever been in a clubhouse, let alone be members.

John punched in a few numbers, still driving.

"Yeah, James, we're at this place called, uh, wuzzit? Hart. Yeah. No. We've booked already. Oh, come on, you've got to be kidding me."

"Turn left," demanded the navigation lady in her robotic voice.

"Shut that thing up, will you, babe? No, James, I was talking to Paula. Alright. See you tomorrow then."

He turned the phone off, then turned to her. "James says we're thirty miles off. Cancel the booking here while I re-do the navigation, yeah? I mean, we might as well go to a closer place or stay at the Clubhouse itself."

Paula scratched at the dashboard, "I, well..."

"What?"

"Non-refundable."

"That's so like you... Fine, we'll go to the hotel and I'll talk to the guy myself. Man, so stupid..."

Paula didn't think that last bit was aimed at her, but it still stung.

The hotel stood relatively short, only three stories high. Only the top two of these boasted windows Paula couldn't tell if it was beige or a light brown, but she liked the sign at the top. It showed a minimalist drawing of a stag's head and said _Hotel Hart_ in white.

"What a dump," John commented as they pulled up to the entrance. No valet showed up, and they eventually turned right into the hotel's parking. Luckily, there wasn't much luggage to pull, and Paula handed her own bag to John.

That's for calling her stupid. He probably only took the bag because he wanted people to think of him as chivalrous. He wasn't as strong as he used to be, and Paula wanted him to struggle.

To the east, lightning flashed briefly. It hadn't begun to rain yet, but Paula was sure that it would at any moment. August flashes. "Are you sure we should cancel the booking and head out? It's a stupid place, but still."

"I don't want to stay here," John replied.

An older employee at the hotel took their luggage for them and put them in a bag carriage. Though the glass doors, Paula glimpsed lots of yellow.

The circular main hall smelled of cinnamon. To complement the scent, the air conditioning had been cranked up just right. Just to their left waited some of those things that were half chair, half sofa, all colored a delicious chocolate brown. Nothing expensive, but all well picked-out.

A couple of people sat there, either reading papers or fiddling with their devices. To the right was a restaurant with a bar counter and multiple elegant tables, where one employee took orders while another mopped up a soda spillage while whistling pleasantly. Then there was the reception.

It was silvery on the fringes, but a pleasant oaky in the middle. The same stag head stood out emblazoned against the wood. The top of the desk was of white marble, and a young brown boy stood there. His mustache made Paula smile without realizing it, but the employee smiled right back. The smile was so wide that she worried for his dimpled cheeks.

The employee, dressed in a standard green hotel button-up, threw his arms out wide just as an elevator rose through the glass shaft behind his desk.

"Ah, welcome, Sir and Madame," he said in an oddly delicate accent, "You must be the Rosenthals! It's such a pleasure to have you here."

It didn't look like he was acting. How weird. Sure, the kid's demeanor, to Paula, took her back to children eating McDonald's while using the playground. A part of it made Paula sniff. She was used to professional service staff, not enthusiasts.

John didn't seem impressed. He grumbled, "Yeah, yeah. Look, buddy, we kinda reserved by mistake. Need to be at this clubhouse first thing in the morning, see?"

The youth's hazel eyes twinkled with sudden curiosity. "The Phaethon?"

"Uh, yeah, that one."

"Nice!" yelped the receptionist, annoying Paula a little, "get the orange juice. Best orange juice in the county, Mr. Rosenthal. Now, let's see what we can do." He began tapping away at a computer hidden under the top of the desk. "Opera...date... Hmm...non-refundable..."

"Good boy," smirked John, automatically reaching into his pocket, "We'll make it worth your whi-"

"Oh, no no," replied the youth, gesturing with his left hand while tracing his mustache with the other. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "None of that, please."

John looked confused. He glanced at Paula, who shrugged. "I was just going to give you-" he began to whisper, but the youth cut him off again.

"I can't, sir. This job means a lot to me. I'm glad to help out customers, but when the system registers a payment in this way, I'd lose my job trying to annul it. I'm sorry, but the payment on the room can't be changed."

John put on his sunglasses. He always did that when he was embarrassed. When embarrassed, he also tended to lash out. That part hadn't changed, even if he never smiled anymore and now wanted to exchange the car he'd been dreaming of since he was twenty-two. At least he'd lash out at the kid, which made Paula feel a little better.

"Look, buddy, when a customer offers you something, you say thanks and shut up. Come on, Paula, this dumpster fire isn't worth the breath, we'll find something better."

"But it might rain," she complained, hopping along to keep up and worrying about her high heels.

"Might as well hurry, then."

It began to rain before they reached the car. By the time John had put the bags in, it was pouring.

"Look," said Paula, "You can't drive in this weather."

"I can do whatever I want."

That was it.

"Well then, I'm not going. You can go fool around by yourself." Just as she said it, Paula regretted the words. It was unfair of her.

"Then get out."

The words were like a slap to the face.

"...Look," he placated, "We'll go take the room here and go out tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay."

They got out in silence, walked in silence, and ignored the helpful baggage employee in silence.

When Paula entered the hotel again, her precious curling work had been ruined by a metric ton of water and her blonde hair had turned into something like a spider's web. She stepped on John's shoe on purpose.

"Ah, sir!" said the young receptionist when he saw them, "I'm so glad you came back, it's raining cats and mice!" The expression took Paula by surprise. Some of the people in the chairs, including a young couple, nodded in approval.

"Yeah, whatever," replied John. "I'm still not taking that room. Give me your best one."

"Best...room, sir?"

"Yeah. You have suites, doncha?"

"Well, yes. But your reservation?"

Paula interjected, "he doesn't care about the money, just charge him for the suite and the room, right, honey?"

That one was for telling her to get out of the car in the rain.

"Yeah, yeah sure." Despite saying it, John threw a scowl at her.

"Very well, sir. In that case..." The receptionist and John ironed out some of the details, leaving Paula to roam the reception hall. The chairs drew her, and she ended up sitting next to the young couple.

They couldn't contain their excitement. Every few seconds, the man, who was dressed for autumn and wore a battered brown watch, would touch the ring on the woman's right hand. It was going to become a habit. She pointed at things and giggled in surprise every time thunder roared outside. The girl's hair was so straight you could have used it as a ruler. John had called that sort of thing bland, but the girl's husband gazed at it as if it were a morning's first cup of coffee.

Eventually, the girl turned to Paula and asked, "First time here?"

"Yes."

"That's great! It's the same for us," she replied, tugging at her lover's sleeve to draw his attention away from her face and towards the conversation.

"Oh, sorry, sweetheart," said the man, finally pulling his eyes away from his wife and towards Paula. "Yes, ma'am, it's our honeymoon."

Sweetheart.

"That's nice," replied Paula, "How long have you been together?"

"Oh, just over three years."

"How wonderful. Planning on traveling?"

"Not really. Most of our budget went into the hotel. We don't really need to travel, though."

"Exactly," added the girl. Paula swore she saw heart-shaped chocolate boxes in the girl's eyes. "We just need each other."

Despite herself, Paula smiled. She couldn't help it, and she hoped none of the sadness showed.

"That's the right attitude. I'm Paula, by the way."

"Jonathan Earl."

"Patricia Ro- oh!" the girl laughed again, "Sorry, that's Patricia _Earl_!"

"And don't you forget it," Paula warned with a playful shake of the index finger. Jonathan seemed to notice her ring.

"Married long, Ma'am?" he asked.

"Just over seven years."

"Beats us."

"We'll catch up soon enough," interjected Patricia, eyes wide.

"I'm sure you will." Paula sighed. "Just..."

"Yeah?"

"People don't really have problems because of the big issues. In a marriage, I mean."

"Oh."

"Most people separate because things piled on. Small cuts. Paper little things, but they add on and one day, you're with someone you never knew. Talk things out and remember who you're with and you'll be fine."

"Paula," called John from across the room, "Let's head up, alright?"

"Yeah, coming. You go ahead, alright?"

With a shrug and a suspicious glance, John left with the baggage employee behind the reception desk, to the glass elevator shaft.

"So..." wondered Patricia aloud, "You have any good stories?" She pulled out a napkin and a pencil from a small yellow handbag. The handbag was obviously cheap, but that hardly mattered. The younger woman began to sketch something.

"Sure. Sure, I have a few romances left." All of a sudden, Paula felt the wrinkles on her face like little paper cuts. For it being almost 10pm, she sure felt tired, but it wasn't the kind of tired that you fixed with a nap. She told them stories of the sunset and how bright John shone and how he loved this one particular car model.

She tried to remember the man that she'd fallen in love with. She wasn't sure that he existed anymore.

***

Sanjhit stretched after finishing the payment for suite 200. Usually, that room was reserved for someone, but there was no way that person would show up out of nowhere to claim it. Besides, the young receptionist had wanted to save Mr. Rosenthal's pride.

Mr. Rosenthal had complained that the employees would just use the extra, pre-paid room to throw a party.

It wasn't often that you saw a couple that bitter, Sanjhit thought to himself as he grabbed an umbrella. He hoped that things worked out for them, either as a couple or individually.

A small part of him grumbled at a receptionist/manager leaving his post in a hotel, but Hotel Hart was fully booked for the night.

The short, thin employee walked out into the rain and towards an empty alleyway he knew well. Red and yellow bricks waited to his left and his right, but he inched into the dark, careful not to step on a cat's tail. Again.

"Morty?" he called out into the dark alley, but the wind and the rain swept the sound as it left his throat. He tried again, louder.

"Morty!"

"Eh, that you, Shen shi?" replied an old voice.

"Yeah, it's me alright."

"Go away! You'll catch your death, boy!"

"No worries, Morty, India's monsoons are so much worse than anything Virginia has to offer."

"Ahahah, crazy, that's what you are."

"You're the crazy one." Sanjhit wasn't actually certain if that was true or not, but it was their running joke.

"And you're the figment of my imagination."

"We've got a free roo- Oh, who's your friend?"

"That's Edith. Not really friends; who cares? All people are friends."

"Hi, Edith."

"Hey yourself."

Fair enough.

"You wanna come in? Both of you? Side entrance as usual, room 106," Sanjhit added the last part hurriedly. He didn't want the two feeling embarrassed about getting a free room. If they come in from the side, they don't have to bear with the stares.

"Alright, thanks."

"No worries, buddy. See you later."

As Sanjhit left for his post, he began to think about how full the hotel would be at breakfast, then he heard Edith's voice.

"Who's that weird kid?"

"I dunno. Some crazy kid. Pretty nice, though. Crazy weird, right?"

"Yeah. Weirdest guy I've seen all week. Now, where's my flower's hat?"

# Surly Smiles

Jonathan watched Paula leave with a cheerful smile, but the smile tugged at his cheeks a little. She and her husband were successful. They had money.

Within a few seconds, the older woman, in her silk-tickle dress, walked around the hotel receptionist's desk and disappeared. This was followed by a ding, a few clicks, and then the sight of the elevator rising up that glass column that had fetched Jonathan's eyes so when booking a room online.

Thoughts of the room's booking caused a tugging to start in Jonathan's stomach. _Pull, pull,_ it went, and he tried not to think about it too much. He'd saved up properly, and his wife deserved the best.

"She was nice," Patricia said, dreamily leaning onto his shoulder while sketching a dress onto a napkin. Immediately, the tugging disappeared.

"She was," he replied. "I feel bad about the soda."

"Yeah. It's okay."

"Should have paid for it."

"You didn't really get it, though."

"No," he agreed, "I didn't."

Outside, the storm raged on. Jonathan checked his old leather watch. The watch's second clock quivered every time it hopped closer to the number twelve. Suddenly, it became ten-thirty p.m.

"Do you want to go have dinner?" he asked Patricia. At least, that's what he tried to say, but then she looked at him.

The problem with marrying someone that you truly care about is that the ring feels like it's stuck around your tongue at times. Because of this, what Jonathan found himself saying was, "Do you wanne hvv,erm, dinner?"

She gave him a confused smile, and then she did the thing that Jonathan truly loved. She looked at him. Ten, nine, eight, blink, eyes, green, lips, soft, two, one.

"Huh?" She asked.

"Oh, just wondering if you're hungry."

"...yeah, yeah I am. Did aunty call yet?"

"Nope. I think she's nervous. When she does call, you'll be the first to know."

"When?"

He paused with his hands on the fleece cover of his chair's arms. "If."

Patricia laughed at that and took his extended hand. He felt her ring on his hand, and it was hot to the touch. Comfortable. Or maybe he was imagining that. You never really know, and the hotel's front hall was unusually warm anyway.

As they walked across the hall, Jonathan's right foot itched slightly. He'd probably worn the woolen sock on his right foot. The blue sock which had hot dogs drawn on it. The tall man tried rubbing the side of his foot against his other shin, but his boots were too thick for that. God, even having both feet itch was better than that.

Towards the middle of the room, Jonathan spotted the young receptionist again. The young brown man was chatting with the blonde employee, the one who'd taken their meagre luggage earlier that day. The receptionist had left for a bit earlier, and seemed in an even better mood than earlier.

Jonathan's hand had not left Patricia's during their little strut. He squeezed her ring softly. It remained hard and comforting. He thought about the soda.

"You just can't help it," she told him. His lo –wife. She was his wife.

"It wouldn't be right," he replied.

"Fine, I'll wait here and pretend to look at magazines."

"I know you've been eyeing that hair cover."

She laughed and scratched his hand, just a little bit. It healed an itch he hadn't known was bothering him.

The South-Asian employee smiled wide as Jonathan reached him. His cup-like dimples popped out. "Evening si-"

Thunder crashed against the sky. The burly, blonde-haired employee let out a little, "Eep."

"Sorry, sir," added the employee with a wink, "Martin is raising a pet mouse and I guess he must have picked up some bad habits."

Jonathan laughed way too hard than he should have at that one.

"Oh, oh," he finally gasped with both hands on the cold marble counter. "I came here for something. Oh, the cola."

"Cola, sir?"

"Yeah, I ordered a glass earlier but dropped it."

"I...see?"

"Well, I want to pay for the Cola."

The employee tried to argue for a while, but it was futile. Jonathan reached into his wallet and counted out some of the few remaining bills, handing them to the man carefully.

Patricia brought the magazine with her to the dinner. It was a several course meal, part of the package Jonathan had already paid for when registering the room on his credit card. Remembering the price on the website caused his stomach to tug at him once more, but he focused on the croutons in his salad.

Just when desert arrived to their table, Jonathan's phone rang. He glanced at it absentmindedly, then noticed the name.

"Hi, mom," he said immediately. Patricia's eyes went wide and she began to knock on the table.

"Hello, honey," an older voice replied.

"Is dad okay?"

"Oh, yes, he's fine. He misses you."

"I miss him too."

"First day together..."

"It's amazing." He meant it. Without really meaning to, his finger fidgeted on the ring. It was slightly too loose, and something about rolling it around felt good on his skin. He did the same thing with his father's old watch often enough. It might be part of i-

"And the hotel?"

"Oh, mom, it's so perfect. I need to show you pictures as soon as possible."

"Great. Now, off with you, I want to speak with my daughter in law."

With that, the phone switched hands and Jonathan turned to his cake, paying little attention to the conversation between his new wife and his mother.

The cake was soft. Incredibly soft. Someone had managed to make chocolate pillow cake or something, that was the only real explanation for how good the cake tasted.

"Jonathan?" intruded a voice on his thoughts, and the man looked up to see the phone being handed back to him.

"Fun chat?"

"Always. Listen, I need to tell you something."

Oh, oh.

In the years they've known each other, Patricia had never really scowled. But now, there was a little bit of a downward curve to her mouth that put the fear of God into Jonathan.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Well, an envelope came by, and aunty picked it up for me."

"Ok?"

"I got the job."

Her mouth flipped into a grin.

Jonathan leapt up. "What?" he asked.

"I have it, they want me to come in and start designing as soon as the honeymoon ends."

"Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm so proud of you!"

An older couple, which sat two tables away to the left, toasted the two of them quietly.

Patricia and Jonathan celebrated with the last of Jonathan's money, but while they did, the man could feel his stomach tugging, tugging. All of her hard work had paid off.

Later he said to Patricia, "Can we go up to the lighthouse?"

"In this weather?"

"Please."

They borrowed a couple of umbrellas from the reception. Around then, it was almost 10:30 pm on the 15th of August, so the receptionist did not voice much concern. August boasted safe weather. Besides, the storm had begun to die out slowly. Despite all of this, while they walked to the tall creamy lighthouse with its sporadic bricks, rain somehow managed to find its way down Jonathan's pants and into his hotdog sock.

The lighthouse stood like a guard up on a grassy cliff overlooking the Atlantic. There were no stars above, and the moon had decided to give up its attempts at sending a cool beam or two their way. It was just Jonathan and Patricia.

The same as always.

When they reached the lighthouse, Patricia leaned back against it, panting. She slid down the length and landed on the grass softly. Jonathan touched the stone. Rough. Goosebumps went through him, like when you scratch one of those walls with the weird paint.

"Weird," he said.

"The lighthouse?"

"Well, I just imagined it'd be warm. There's a video game I used to love."

"The piano one?"

"Exactly. It was called 'to the moon'."

"It was so sad."

"True. In that game, lighthouses were important. A character says:

I never told anyone, but... I've always thought they were lighthouses.

The stars, she means

Billions of lighthouses... stuck at the far end of the sky.

Because one day... I'm going to befriend one of them."

"That's beautiful."

"Yeah. Kind of. But it's just a lighthouse."

"Honey, are you okay?"

"No, not really."

"Do you... regret marrying me?"

"God no! Oh no, never."

"Then what's wrong?"

"It's just that you're so amazing. You tried so hard at being a designer, and now you are. You're an artist. Someday, people will line up to wear what you make."

"Oh, honey, I don-"

"I do. I always knew that you'd make an amazing designer. I'd climb this lighthouse to prove it, and jump off and everything."

She giggled. "Please don't jump."

"I won't."

"So what's the problem?"

"When you were trying, I was there to help. Being a tour guide doesn't do much for money, but I helped a little. I was supporting and if there was any believing to be done, I was good at that too.

"And now you're making it. It's so incredible, and it's scary because I'm just a poor tour guide."

His stomach tugged because he felt like he was weighing a genius down.

"I can't make the money that you'll be making. Just this honeymoon stretched me like a rubber band. And you'll have thousands of fans and critics."

"And one husband."

"Sure. It's just... I can't explain. You know when there's a peach and you're trying to cut it but it's too ripe, so you try as hard as you can not to squeeze it to mush? That's how my heart feels right now."

"Oh, honey."

He fiddled a little with the band of his old watch. "It feels like my life has led up to me being here for you and helping you become the amazing artist you are. I made the money so you could focus on the craft, telling you it was possible; loving you. And now you've reached your goal. I can't help anymore. It's so empty."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"I'll always need you. And by the way? As long as you care about me, I never need to design another dress ever again."

"But... you said that designing was like breathing to you."

"It is. But I love you."

"I love you too. And I'm proud of you. I'm happy being the artist's husband. As long as I'm not holding you down. I could be an eventual stay-at-home-dad."

"You're not just that. You're my muse."

***

Sanjhit checked one of the recurring dates for the mechanics to come out and maintain the elevator's lubrication. It didn't sound too bad, but as the young employee told himself, better safe than sorry. He hoped the Earls from room 102 came back from the lighthouse soon.

Looking at the time, Sanjhit headed to the employees' break room. In the corner of the room there was a small red cage. Something moved about inside. It was a small white mouse.

Sanjhit played a little with the mouse. He wondered where Martin was. They were supposed to sync their coffee breaks.

"Thanks for being here, Mr. Mouse," he told the mouse. Why anyone would name a mouse Mr. Mouse was beyond the young man's comprehension, but that was the name Martin had chosen.

The mouse sniffed and snickered.

"None of that, now. Don't keep doing these things in front of Martin. You know, Mr. Mouse? You might need us to stay alive, but you give us something back. I think we need you too."

Mr. Mouse did not reply, but Sanjhit felt sure that the two of them had reached some sort of mutual understanding.

# Graceful Gills

Matthew Snow toasted to the young couple along with Amy.

When Amy said, "Cheers," with a kind smile, Matthew didn't quite believe her. He knew her too well to actually think that the old, ring-haired woman would have nothing to say about the man and woman two tables away from them. Amy was like water in that way: always flowing downhill.

"Look at them," she said quietly as she leaned in towards him, "Getting excited so young. He's probably gotten her pregnant or something, don't you think?"

Matthew tended not to think. He thought things worked out all the better if you lived life like that. Also, it saved him the trouble of disagreeing with Amy.

"I suppose," he recited.

"Of course you do. At least they have the money to live in a hotel like this one. Don't look at her," she whispered suddenly while plopping a pickled cherry in her mouth. Amy made a sour face while chewing, but Matthew didn't know if it was because of the cherry or some inner secret.

"I wasn't looking at her."

"Oh, I know how you are."

"But-"

"I do. It's been, what, thirty two years?"

In fact, it hadn't been thirty two years. It had been thirty three years, six months, and two weeks. However, there was no point in saying that. It would just make her angry.

"Somewhere around that," Matthew said.

"So you see, I know all about you. A woman always knows. Look at them," she added, pointing her chin at the young couple. "At least he makes enough to bring her here. Good on him, even if he did get her pregnant. Better than anything we came up with."

While Amy sipped her drink, Matthew tried to heal his stung feelings. He gulped the contents of his fancy glass, but the glinting liquid inside didn't help.

"Did he call?" Matthew asked.

"He knows better than to call me now."

"That's true."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, your bleeding heart can't handle it, can it?"

"He's our son."

"I didn't go into labor for seventeen hours for _that._ "

Matthew took another gulp. He hoped it put some of the fire out. For the sake of peace, he tried to pacify her, since the fire kept crackling in him. It was loud when it crackled.

"It must have been hard."

She said, "Of course it was. You don't know the half of it."

It probably didn't matter to her that she'd told him about the agony of labor a hundred times already. He'd never understand.

"It was like being cut in half," she informed him.

Matthew could almost hear the sawing.

"It's such a blessing that mothers are willing to do that for people," he ventured, guessing at her next words, "almost charity."

"Damn right it is."

"He'll be heartbroken when we get there."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a funeral, Aims..."

"You don't think these people actually care, do you?" She looked vividly shocked. In her eyes, people like their son wouldn't care. Not even throughout the burial. Any expectation that she would be civil tomorrow came crashing down all around Matthew Snow. "I just hope he hasn't caught it," Amy concluded.

Somewhere, Matthew genuinely agreed, but he'd never thought the words _caught it_. That disease wasn't like the flu.

"Do you really think he doesn't care about losing someone? Just because of who he is?"

"Not who he is," she whispered. Her eyes, ringed blue with age, darted around the dining hall. "What he is."

"I suppose."

They finished their meal in silence. Well, he did. She kept hissing about those around them, those who lived back in their home state, Congressmen, everyone.

When the food on his plate had been transported to his stomach, Matthew looked up. She was looking at him. "How did you like the food?" he asked.

"Oh, it was alright."

It was fantastic, but he didn't say that. Matthew was the kind of person who preferred to keep his head down and his tongue well-bitten.

Matthew didn't think twice about ordering another drink while they sat quietly opposite one another. His early retirement package saw to that. Somewhere far to the right, a voice rang out. Its timber was a deep thrum. Whoever owned that voice, thought the old man, was putting to good use.

The voice sang about many things, but they could not see the singer. Matthew took the time to quietly sit and think about his son. His poor, poor son.

_Probably gotten her pregnant,_ Amy had said earlier. _Better than anything we came up with._

Matthew had certainly hoped to be a grandfather one day. As his beverage swirled in his mouth, he reconsidered. It's good that Amy would never be a grandmother. Damn him for thinking it, but it was true.

When they stood up to leave, she walked ahead of him. Her feet clacked against the black marble flooring of the dining hall and onto the white of the reception area. There, she pulled on her cardigan tighter and somehow managed to drop her handbag.

It fell on the floor with a thud. Amy had always been a fan of these teensy little bags with the top bits that don't really stick all that well. Because of this, her bag opened as it fell and spilled her things all over the floor.

As she turned, startled, the hotel receptionist strode confidently towards her, in his green button up. However, when he bent over to help, Amy turned with a surprised look and exclaimed, "Don't touch my things!"

For a second, everything was still.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am," said the young receptionist. He leaped back immediately. To Matt, it felt like the receptionist's head had gears whirring inside of it. The young man studied Amy's frightened eyes, the way they were directed at him and only him, and seemed to understand (or remember) something. "Martin," bade the young man finally, "Would you help our customers pick her things up, if she'd like you to?"

"Ma'am?" asked the other employee, who'd been standing next to a wall.

"...yes, that would be fine. I was just startled."

"Of course."

By then, Matthew had managed to reach the three of them and began to help as well. A few men and women in the chairs off to the side pretended not to watch. Rain pattered against the world outside, but the storm was already far weaker than it had been earlier.

When the other employee, Martin, had finished helping them, Matthew and Amy ambled off with a polite thank you. They walked slowly, like old people often did, and the woman leaned against Matthew, saying, "Did you see that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I kept my eye on that one. He was going to steal from me. I know it."

Something clicked in Matthew then, like a gun's hammer being pulled all the way back. He felt like he was deep in the ocean. He didn't like the ocean.

"Like you knew about Michael?" he asked

"Yes. A mother always knows, that's why I tried to straighten him out."

"I suppose. Listen, how about you go ahead?" He handed her the key to their room, and the chain jangled in her hand. "I don't think I'm ready for bed yet."

"Suit yourself, but the burial starts early tomorrow. The room is 109."

With that, she moved to the stairs. She'd never liked elevators, Matthew knew. Just another drop in the ocean.

Amy went up the stairs. One old foot went up the first step, and then the next. And then she tripped, just a little. Matthew saw her black shoe miss the third step. Amy overbalanced a little before regaining her place with a tired but firm hand on the guard rail.

Matthew pretended not to see. He just turned and ambled through another corridor while Amy left for their room. He almost bumped into a red haired woman in a corridor, flailing about like a drowning fish while she apologized profusely. "It's quite alright," he told her.

About fifteen minutes later, he sat on a beach chair by the indoors pool. He tried not to think that he'd just wished that his wife would just die.

The water almost glowed blue because of the lights set up beneath the surface. It reflected and rippled. The roof was of paneled glass, like a glass house, and droplets tap danced along it.

Matthew's gaze was fixed on the pool. It looked a little like the ocean. He just watched it silently until he heard footsteps.

A woman with wavy hair entered the area. She saw him; hesitated. He gave her a friendly smile and the barest of nods, after which the woman came closer and sat on another chair. For the longest time, nobody said anything.

"Storm's almost over," she commented.

"I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. Just, you know. A few drops left to shake."

"You're right about that. I guess it might go on a bit."

"Huh."

"Sorry to bother you, sir."

"It's alright, young lady, no bother at all. You don't sound like you're from around here."

"No, no we're not. Just coming to meet with friends."

"That's good. Friends who are worth the trip to this place sure must be great."

"Well, they're my husband's friends, mostly."

"Oh, it's that sort of thing."

"Yeah."

"Young lady..."

She gave a short, musical laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry," the woman finally said, "It's just been a long time since someone called me young."

"There now, you can't be a day over thirty."

"Could have said the same thing about you."

Now it was his turn to laugh. Probably, his laugh was less musical, but it also lasted longer. Then they went back to watching the pool.

"I never liked the ocean," he said quietly.

"Oh."

"Almost drowned, once. Dad was out drinking tea and the next thing you know, I'm throat deep in saltwater."

"That sounds horrible."

"Was surprising, 'sall. When you're underwater, all you hear is bubbles. You learn to deal with it."

"Drowning?"

"I suppose."

"You just don't want it to be over," she told him later, "but sometimes it already is."

"That's true." He wondered if he should ask her what's over, or about why she was crying, but he didn't.

"I think I'm about to get a divorce."

He didn't know how to reply to that.

"I just don't know how to deal with it," the woman continued. "Or him. I don't know how he'll deal with it."

"I think," Matthew said at long length, "...I don't know what I think."

He didn't really like to think that much anyway.

Matthew asked, "Have any kids?"

"No."

"That's one thing off your mind. Besides, you young ones can still get divorced and find someone else. Matthew," he finally introduced himself with an extended hand.

"Paula Rosenthal. Well, maybe not anymore. Nice to meet you."

***

Sanjhit watched the old man hand his keys to his partner. She took a few steps, then stumbled. The old man didn't see, and so didn't help her. At least, that's what Sanjhit hoped.

"She's no Mother Theresa, is she?" asked Martin, to his left. The receptionist shrugged.

"Not everyone has to be."

"You know why she didn't want you around her stuff, right?"

"I know." The youth sighed, adding, "But come on. She's old."

"If you buy that excuse, you'll buy anything. When's the last time you went home?"

"A while. It's always awkward when you forget family members."

"Happens to me all the time," replied Martin with a sniff.

For a few minutes, they didn't say much. Sanjhit thought about the old woman again. She can't be all that bad. _I mean,_ he reasoned, _if you're that old, then you've got friends, children, maybe even grandkids. You can't be horrible to everyone._

Thinking about that made the receptionist feel better. Probably, the old lady in 109 was great with those she cared about. Probably, the old man just hadn't seen her trip. The alternative would be just too sad for a tender hotel receptionist.

# Terrible Touch

Jesus Christ, why was she so clumsy?

Brianna almost felt like slapping herself.

"It's alright, my dear," said the old man to her waving his hands politely. Still, the frail man, whose posture was reminiscent of a lower case r, looked upset.

Of course he was upset, she'd almost hurt him.

"I'm so sorry," she said to the old man again, but he didn't seem to hear her. The man walked away, strolling as if the hotel's corridor was a forest.

It was Brianna and Stephen's sixth night in Hotel Hart, but still, when she went up the elevator to their room, she pressed 2 instead of 1 by mistake.

When the elevator stopped, someone was up there, and the man moved out of the way, thinking that she was going to leave the elevator.

"I, eh, no, I..." she said.

"Oh, heheh!" he replied while she blushed a dull red.

He laughed at her, and so Brianna could not look the man in the face while they went back down. Instead, she looked at her stupid sneakers. Because of this, Brianna forgot to press one again.

"Ground floor," the man prodded gently one the elevator doors parted.

"I'm going up," she told him miserably.

"Oh."

The man left. He glided down the hall, towards where the old man had earlier gone. Probably, he was heading to the gym or something, he'd looked muscular. Probably, when he was done with working up a sweat, he'd step back down to the bar, where he'd meet someone and chat about the stupid girl in the orange sweater who went up and down the elevator without pressing any buttons. They'd laugh at Brianna together, and they'd clink glasses, and everyone would have a grand old time. Meanwhile, she'd just sit tired and alone, like always. Either that, or she'd ruin Steven's night with her bad moods.

The elevator doors closed, but Brianna wasn't sure that she wanted to go to the room anymore. She pressed 1 anyways, leaving a smudge mark on the button.

Just then, a ding came from Brianna's phone. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, noticing that she had gained a bit of weight. A lot of weight. Fine, too much weight. Ugh, but burgers tasted so good. Why did they have to make her untouchable?

_Hey girl,_ the message on her phone said, _how's the vacation going?_

_It's great,_ she replied.

_Arre you okay?_ Came a second message. The typo was typical of Sue.

Yes, I'm fine.

She began to type. _Except that I'm not. Everything is fine except for me. People are happy, and I suppose I should be as well. Work is with friends, but every day there feels like being inside a cloud, all wet and blind. I'm with a wonderful man who knows exactly when to say the things he needs to say, but he also knows that I am an absolute MESS who'll take it the wrong way anyway. Brianna Hathaway is touched by a devil that was born in her own head, and it's black and ugly and it looks exactly like me. I think I'm crazy, but I'm not sure._

The elevator dinged just as Brianna deleted the message without sending it. That message had too many buts.

The corridor was all red carpets and white walls. Along the carpeted floor snaked a sneaky gold formation depicting leaves. The doors were a rich, decadent brown. She felt wrong, standing there and wondering if she could face going to the room.

Eventually, Brianna took a few hesitant steps towards their room, 107. Its doors loomed at her like a safe haven. Like the cave behind which the cavewoman can hide with a campfire, away from the creatures of the night. Then the cavewoman heard a noise inside. She wouldn't be alone. She'd sit next to the campfire, on her makeshift bed of leaves, but she wouldn't be alone. He'd leave her alone if she asked him to, but you don't do that to someone who just wants to help you. You don't do it.

She didn't. Instead, Brianna simply turned around and went somewhere else. It wasn't like she slept much anymore. She walked the red flooring and the white corridors and left the sounds behind. Guilt stabbed her like a blade, but she tried to harden her heart against it. Steven would only worry a little bit. He'd barely even know that she was gone.

Eventually, her sneakers took her towards a discovery: stairs. The stairs led down but away, towards a different side of the hotel. She wasn't exactly sure if she was actually above the reception area or the dining hall, but Brianna could hear people talking somewhere. And then that noise stopped too.

A sudden dimming of the lights accompanied Brianna's venture into the library. It wasn't overly large, but it was absolutely filled with books. In some places, the dim interior had been laden with enough books that Brianna couldn't look over the top of them. They formed faint rainbow monoliths.

She stepped inside cautiously. When the woman was younger, she'd read a lot, but that was a long time ago. Brianna was already nearing her forties, meaning that her last book must have been... the last unicorn, almost thirty years ago. Must have been eight at the time.

Brianna wandered and wondered around the library, which boasted a grand total of four tables and a single potted plant. In the corner, blankets were heaped on a chair set in front of a desk of such faded red that it was almost the color of earth. Brianna thought that the desk would simply fade from existence eventually. Just like her. But she wouldn't mind fading away in a place this quiet. She held her breath and waited ten, twenty, thirty seconds.

"Pfshhhhhhh."

Nothing. Not a stir. It was 11:11 pm and the world was silent.

Brianna sat on one of the armchairs. It felt odd. She sat and thought and watched the rainbow monoliths around her. Such dull rainbows.

Just like her to waste time. Steven was probably worrying about her right now. At any moment, he'll get tired and start regretting that he'd ever asked her out. Maybe he'd even wish she had said no, instead of just freezing up long enough for him to take her phone number from Sue. In fact, wasn't Sue the reason they were together in the first place? Brianna had never had the guts to ever open up, except for when she got sad and cried whenever there was a problem with Steven. He didn't even want to be with her. She was guilting him to stay with her, wasn't she? What was the point of even thinking about love if she was acting like a jail around the only person who really cared about her? She'd be better of-

"Ma'am?"

"Aaayee!"

"Aaah!"

The short receptionist recoiled from her, tripping over a stubby heap of books and almost falling over. In the last second, he caught himself by the edge of a table.

"I am so-"

"-Sorry, Ma'am," he finished for her.

"Oh no, it's completely my fault."

"Not at all."

"But I was..." she pointed around. "What is this place?"

"Er, the library."

"Oh."

"Yes, Ma'am. A long time ago, before the renovations, this place was closer to the reception area, but it's barely used these days. Were you looking for a book?"

"Here?" The second she asked, Brianna noticed exactly how stupid the question sounded, but the receptionist just smiled. Somehow, she didn't think that he was laughing at her.

"Absolutely. The place is a mess these days, but it probably has whatever you're looking for."

"You think so?" But she wasn't looking for a book at all.

"Indeed. Here," he threw his arms wide, "Are so many books, it has to be here somewhere. What were you looking for?"

"I... The Last Unicorn."

He gave her a confused glance, and then said, "Perfect, then just a second."

With that, the man in the green button-up tunic left, followed by the clacking of his shoes. Brianna paused a few seconds just to allow her heart to quiet down. She'd just blurted the name of the first book that had come to her mind. Glancing about, she noted that the books on the nearest shelf didn't seem to be in an alphabetical order.

The sound of boots against wood stopped abruptly. Brianna heard, "Devin?"

A snore filled the air. It sounded like marbles hitting each other.

"Devin!"

"Gah!"

Somebody sighed.

"Wake up, Devin."

"Oh god, you damn egg, it's so late!" This new person's voice was as old and wispy as the clouds in the sky.

"...Did you just call me an...egg?"

"Sure did."

"Come on, don't be like that."

"You have any coffee?"

"No, it's too late for coffee. I can go make you some?"

"Coffee would be good."

"Isn't it always?"

"Don't patronize me, boy."

"I won't. Anyway. A customer wants to borrow a book."

Oh no. Did the receptionist just wake somebody up just to ask for a book for her? Shame streamed through Brianna in tiny rivulets. Would the old man find the book? She didn't even want it. What if he hurt himself? It's her fault. Brianna's breath began to choke itself while she fidgeted on the chair, twisting the orange sleeves of her sweater. It was her favorite color. Bright, vibrant, happy. Opposites attract.

"What book does the little pain in the neck want?"

She was so annoying.

"Oh god," replied the receptionist's voice, "please keep your tone down, Devin. She wants something called The Last Unicorn."

Why did anyone bother with her?

There was a pause.

"Hmm. Peter S. Beagle. At least she'd a pain in the neck with good taste."

Oh. She had good taste?

There was a brief struggle, then a grunt.

"Gah! Here you go."

It's been a long time since she read the book.

"Wow."

"Go, go! I want my coffee, you hear? And tell her that the book isn't for reading."

"What do you mean?"

"Have someone read it for her."

"I... bye?"

The sounds of shoes came back in the midst of confused thoughts.

"Here you go, Ma'am. Sorry about Devin. He's old."

"...That's okay. I'm sorry I'm so annoying."

"Not at all. Always a pleasure."

With that an old, dusty book was put into her hands.

Brianna didn't want to keep the old man awake, and so she left the library passing another man on the way. Brianna didn't really notice him. She hadn't read anything in a long time and the old man's advice played over and over in her head. _Have someone read it for her._

She remembered that The Last Unicorn was something her father had always read to her. Brianna decided that for once in her life, she was going to be brave. If Steven was awake, she would ask him to read her the book. If not, then she'd just take it back to the old man in the morning and lie about reading it. She'd be awake, since she didn't really sleep much these days.

When Brianna reached the door, she noticed an old woman standing a few doors away and on the opposite side. The woman was glancing about suspiciously with her head poking out into the corridor. Despite her nervousness, Brianna tried to smile at the woman in room 109.

"H-hi, Ma'am."

"Oh, shut up. We're trying to sleep!" with that, the woman closed the door with a slam.

That brought tears to Brianna's eyes. She knocked on the door of her room, determined. Then, she remembered that she had a key. The tears began reaching the tips of her lashes.

When she entered, Steven was on the bed with a smile on his face. As he glanced at her, the smile faltered.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"R-read me a book?" She tried not to cry, but Brianna realized suddenly that she really needed him.

It didn't seem like Steven understood what was going on, but he immediately took the book from her hands and started to read. She began weeping almost at the same moment, but it was the good kind of crying. At some point they talked, and then she fell into a deep sleep.

***

Sanjhit stood next to Devin, who somehow resembled a walrus.

"How," he asked, "do you find the books so easily?"

"It's all fine if I order them, isn't it?"

"They're not ordered."

"Sure they are."

"By what?"

"By how much I liked them."

"You mean..."

"Yip. I don't keep books I don't like."

"I'm... honestly impressed, Devin." The library was filled to the brim with books. If the old man had read all of them, then he himself was a treasure trove of information.

"Why did you ask that someone read it to her?"

"The Last Unicorn is just one of those books. You want to be reminded that there's magic in the air when you tell yourself the story."

"But... you aren't telling it. Someone else is reading it."

"What, and it just travels into your brain? That's not how it works."

"No?"

"No. You think Peter S. Beagle told the story of The Last Unicorn? Nope, he just wrote it down. Do you think whoever reads it out loud is telling it? Nope again, they're just saying it. Stories exist in our hearts. They are born every time we speak them in our heads. It's we who tell the story."

Sanjhit wasn't sure that he really understood, but the passion in the old man's voice made him happy.

"I'll go get you that coffee, Devin."

"Good. You're a good kid. You know," the old man added while playing with his mustache, "It's something of a hobby of mine to find out what peoples' favorite books are. What's yours?"

"Oh, I'm not really into books. I liked the last Avengers movie, though. It's based on a comic book, so I guess that counts?"

Devin glared at him.

"Get out."

# Optimistic Opinions

Luke yawned, then winced because he'd forgotten to cover his mouth.

It was exactly the sort of thing that he'd do, he reflected while getting out of the shower. Whatever, no one was looking, so it didn't really matter, did it?

Emily was sleeping on the bed when he turned into the room. Beads of water stepped gracefully down the man's body, leaving dark spots on the red carpet. Silent.

He was in the mood to leave the room, but Luke had not kept his keycard. It glinted on the edge of the bedside table. Right next to Emily's manicured hand. He grinned, anticipating a game.

Suddenly, lasers appeared in the room. At least, they appeared in the mind of his eye. Red and sizzling audibly, they connected the walls of their room, obstructing the man's access to the door keys. He was dressed in spy- no. He was dressed in the black a ninja.

Luke let his well-honed muscle relax. His feet disappeared under him and he fell into a sideways roll, almost brushing the bed post with his nose. As he reached the other side, narrowly avoiding the lasers, Luke rose. His lungs tugged at him, and he opened his mouth wide. The wider you open your mouth and lungs, the less likely it is that you'll make a sound when exhaling.

Haah. Gulp.

She was still asleep, but Luke paid Emily no mind. In that moment, he barely looked at her as Emily. She was an enemy soldier who'd fallen asleep at the castle doors, foolishly believing that the lasers would protect her. Her dagger (the cellphone) lay discarded to the side, glowing brightly in the darkness. Even in his state of play, Luke did not peek at the phone. It was none of his business.

With a deft move, Luke put his fingers on the green keycard. As an afterthought, he also took on the sheath and sniffed in satisfaction. Had Emily been an enemy guard of a castle keep upon the clouds, protected by lasers, she would have stood no chance against him.

Luke quietly left the room, doing that thing where you keep the handle down so that the door doesn't click when it closes. Ninja.

On the other side of the corridor with the red carpet, Luke breathed a sigh of relief and considered his options for the night. It was already well after midnight, almost 1am. Slowly, he strutted towards the stairs, thinking about the girl in the orange sweater who'd almost bumped into him earlier on this very corridor as he'd been on his way to his room, 104. Her eyes had been downcast like sails without winds and her lips had trembled. Luke hoped she was feeling better now.

Luke was the kind of man who traced with wrinkles on his face with a grin. Because of this, when the transparent elevator wouldn't come with the push of a button, appearing to malfunction, he simply shrugged and hopped down the stairs three at a time.

At the reception hall with its marble flooring and high glass ceilings, Luke found himself slightly confused, as he did not remember why he'd come down here. He certainly wasn't about to ask where the gym was, since he'd _just_ taken a shower, but what else was there in the ground floor?

A few stragglers still sat on the chairs in the reception hall. Some of them chatted while others savored a nice coffee. Luke had learned early that the reception's wifi was superior to that in the rooms. Besides, Sanjhit had said that people often came to the hotel for official business with regulars, or even to use the hotel's conference rooms.

Luke stepped quietly across the hall, noting the bar counter on the far side of the hall. He and Emily hadn't had dinner in the restaurant yet, but the breakfast was amazing.

Once more, Luke became a spy. The kid from Kingsmen, probably, since James Bond was a horrible human being. Luke rubbed at his neck length blonde hair, wishing that he had one of those bullet-shooting umbrellas.

"Evening, Mr. Thomson," greeted Sanjhit. Damn.

"Hey there, buddy." He'd been foiled. Luke knew there was a way to walk in front of someone without being noticed, but he must've botched it.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, of course. How's work today?"

"It's going well. Well, usually, there's more to do, but that's simply because we have to wait for potential guests."

"I don't get it."

"There's always someone going somewhere, so we stand by and wait for what we call Walk-ins."

"Huh. Very Game of Thrones."

"Ahahah, those are White Walkers you're thinking of, sir. Walk-ins are people who have no reservations but still would like a room. Hotel Hart tends to have many of those."

"Oh wait, no. You asked if everything was alright. There _is_ a problem!"

"Problem? With the room?" The receptionist's eyes widened in alarm.

"Well, not really. It's just that the elevator isn't working."

"Oh my! Thank you, sir, I need to go take care of it."

With that, the receptionist made to head off, but Luke grabbed at his arm.

"Sir?"

"Let me know if you need any help. Used to be an electrician."

Sanjhit made off, calling for another person to hold the front desk for a while.

To Luke's surprise, the large but shy man who'd gotten their bags a few days earlier came up. For a second, Luke struggled with the name, but then the knowledge opened up to him like it came from within a mind palace.

"Hi, Martin."

"H-hello, sir."

It looked like the blonde haired man didn't like to talk much, and so Luke promptly excused himself. He stalked the hall like a ranger from Lord of The Rings. However, there wasn't much to do in the hall, and so the man thought he should wait at the bar.

Next to him on the counter, a man and a woman sat, conversing quietly. It was obvious from the way they sat that they were flirting with one another, and so Luke moved his own drink a few seats away, taking his olives with him.

Her hair curled three times and the man's didn't, not even once. Both owned faces that, probably, had been molded from solid clay into granite, hers black marble to his pearly sheen. His glasses didn't make him look weak, just slightly approachable. Neither was dressed for a date, but both had taken the opportunity to spray some perfume on. Or was it cologne, when the man put it on? Luke didn't know. Closest he'd gone to perfume was Old Spice. Well, unless someone forced one on him.

The woman, who seemed to be in her thirties, just a decade shy of Luke, said, "And you said you never liked that one?" She had a slow lilt to her voice. The one that made you sound husky, somehow.

Her date for the night replied, "Oh, no, it's not like that. I just think Clapton did better work after that."

"Anything pretty?"

"It depends on what you think is pretty."

"Strong, wild, sweet?"

The man laughed. "Careful or I'll think you're just describing yourself."

"Oh, you."

"Just needed to add 'sexy' in there somewhere."

Absentmindedly, Luke remembered Sanjhit saying that Hotel Hart was fully booked. It was great the people met even in such unlikely circumstances. Love had a way of winning, didn't it? Of course it did, you can never fight it. You don't even want to.

Eventually, the receptionist came over. He glanced at the couple and something in his face changed, ever so subtly, then he turned to Luke.

"Sir, there's probably no need for you to concern yourself about the elevator."

"It'll be okay?"

"Well, the service men will arrive first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I've managed to get it going."

Luke whistled, impressed. "When they get here, tell them to focus on the elevator belt. The Atis Gen2 likes to turn itself off if the belt needs to be changed."

"I, of course, sir. Thank you. I'd like to buy you a drink."

"Oh boy, another one?"

"It's on the hotel; to show our appreciation."

"I'll need to have a quick workout then."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You have a swimming pool, right?"

"Yes, sir. It's that way. Third right, and the take the first left and you'll find it. I'll have swimming trunks and a towel prepared for you."

Luke raised his eyebrows, surprised. "How'd y..."

"You mentioned earlier what a shame it was that you couldn't swim in the ocean, else you'd have brought a suit."

Sanjhit must also like Kingsmen.

"Alright then. Can you get me a swimming shirt or something too? I'm that kind of guy."

The brown receptionist in the green-button up tunic simply smiled as he gave the short bartender her instructions and left.

After having his second drink, Luke tried to tiptoe across towards the back of the reception hall. He'd always been a lightweight, however, and so he staggered. Martin smiled at him politely, joined once more by Sanjhit, who assured the man that his swimming gear was already by the pool.

By the time he reached the swimming pool, Luke was more or less sober again. He marveled at the roof while noting that two people were talking to his right. He nodded politely at the old man, and offered another to the woman, who was dressed in a flowing dress quite unlike anything might choose to wear at the swimming pool.

Luke stepped to the side, dressed himself in the clothes that he found prepared for him: Blue and white trunks held by an absurdly long string, added to a long sleeved affair that, thankfully, wasn't tight enough to show off his physique.

The first dive into the water shocked him from a slow lull into fully-awake-where-is-the-shark mode. He first paddled about lazily.

"I'm sure that he still loves me," Luke heard the woman said to the old man, "but I'm tired of bruising myself while looking for those golden nuggets; they're buried so deep down."

The old man asked, "You want him to show you love?"

"Yes, no. I'm not sure."

"Well, how does he treat other people?"

"Sir?"

"My dear, you said that he treats you like you're a possession now. A long time ago, how did he tr-"

Luke dove underwater. Even a spy had limits.

Water rushed over him, and the man did a few sideways flips underwater. He was battling strange aliens in an unknown world. Luckily, laser beams don't work underwater. He punched a green face and began to swim towards shore. His head cleared the surface.

"I think there's a lot me and him need to keep talking about. Do you really think I hurt him too?"

"Nobody is perfect," replied the old man sadly. "I don't think you are either. But this is a chance for you to become...worthy, I think, of someone who cares about you. I wish I'd had that chance earlier."

"I only ever meant to tease him sometimes. I didn't know about the rest of it."

"I know. It's crazy, bonkers, really, how easy it is to cut someone so deep in their personality that they change. Trust me, I know."

"We might not heal."

"No. Maybe. I hope so. Sometimes you can change and find an even better love. Just not with him."

"I hate it."

"Me too."

"So... I'll get divorced."

Luke dove again.

Later, he rose from the water, muscles aching with the exertion, and pretended that he hadn't heard anything. He didn't know much, but the woman's last words pulled at his heart strings. Silently, the man changed his clothes and decided to head out. Then he couldn't do it. The hurt in the two of them was too much.

He turned into the hero from that movie nobody ever remembers and turned a little in his stride, saying, "Excuse me?"

"Yes?" Asked the old man

"I just wanted to say I hope things go well."

They didn't reply. The old man and the woman in the pretty dress just looked at him sadly, and that terrified Luke. It was as if they knew someone he didn't.

When Luke walked back by the hall, he noted the man and the woman still flirting by the bar. They sat a little closer to one another, and that made Luke feel a little better.

The elevator only stuttered slightly as he rode it. Probably, it would get fixed later. Not like the woman's marriage. Luke felt like a scientist trying to calculate how to stop the meteor from hitting planet earth, but he knew deep down that it wasn't for him to figure out.

He opened the door to their room quietly. Emily was asleep, but Luke didn't take care in his footsteps. Ever the light sleeper, the guardian to the castle awoke and the lasers flashed seventeen colors.

"Oh, honey, you were out?" She rubbed her bleary eyes.

"Just a bit."

He slid into bed with her and hugged her tight.

"What was that for?"

"I just missed you."

She laughed.

"After sneaking around behind my back?"

"Oh, Em."

"James Bond."

"Don't do that. I hate that guy."

"I know."

"...Hey. You know how there are all these tropes?"

"From movies?"

"Yeah. The action hero, spy or whatever? I feel like out of all of these, if I had to choose any world to live in, I'd be just happy being here with you."

She stared at him. "Honey, you are probably the weirdest person in the world."

That made him giggle. Laugh, actually.

"I just love you so much," he said, "and so what I meant was that there's no place I'd rather be."

They sat and hugged for a bit. In his mind, they were under a tree. Peach blossoms filled the air. She was his and even though the old man and the woman knew something he didn't, Luke believed he also knew something that they'd missed. He wouldn't love Emily so much otherwise.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked.

"Nothing."

"Men, that's what you always say!"

***

Sanjhit stood stiffly at the front desk with the marble top. As someone who worked in a hotel, he got to see many things every day. One learned to keep a cool head. Sometimes, however, that was just impossible.

"I can't take it," he said. Martin twitched.

"Break?"

"Please. I'll feed Mr. Mouse."

Luckily, Sanjhit had managed to get Morty and his friend into Hotel Hart and their room through the side entrance. He should be feeling great. However, the sight of Mr. Smith and Mrs. Johnson flirting by the bar grated on his nerves.

Sanjhit reached the break room and stepped in the austere insides. Mr. Mouse waited for him. Mr. Smith and Mrs. Johnson. And their respective spouses had seemed so happy earlier that night, too.

He hated it so much that he accidentally spilled some of Mr. Mouse's food. Luckily, the mouse only sniffed at him. Mr. Mouse seemed to share in Sanjhit's anger.

# Venomous Vines

Theodore and Tiffany clinked glasses.

"Cheers," whispered Tiffany with a wink. She'd never seen anyone quite so beautiful.

Tom replied, "Cheers." He angled his shoulders just right. Despite being in glasses, the man could have been a statue. His chest was broad enough to climb in a pinch. He wore... what was it? Tiffany couldn't quite place the cologne, but it reminded her of a hammer clothed in velvet. Maybe something as sweet as Lacoste white mixed with his own musk? No. Everything Theodore had said that evening suggested that he only went for things a grade above, which was code for 'more expensive'.

"So," he asked her, "You look like a girl who likes a bit of exertion herself." As he said it, his lips moved just a bit, the way they did when you bit the lower one on the inside. He was probably too polite to bite his lip visibly.

"Just a bit of dancing here and there." It was an understatement, but there was no reason to brag. Tiffany consciously traced her sleeve while they sipped from their glasses. Despite the perfumes, neither of them was dressed for a date.

"Oh, there has to be more," he pressed.

She waved a finger in front of his face, "There had to be more about your football career, but you wouldn't give me anything there, either."

"Baby, that was just me saving you the trouble of listening to a braggart."

_Braggart._ Now that was a word. "So other than martinis and a scent that can make a girl's head spin, what do you like, Mr. Smith?"

"Whatever you'd like to talk about today, Ms." He looked at her. God, how he looked at her.

The whole matter was relatively unplanned. They'd simply enjoyed one another's company so much that the two of them were drawn to one another. They'd agreed to meet shortly after midnight. Now, the clock in the reception hall almost pointed at 2 a.m. They'd been talking for most of that time, and Tiffany felt like they could talk forever-more. Just hearing about his views on the last ten years of music made her want to let him speak forever. Even worse, he seemed to feel the same way. He'd only ever talked about himself when she asked, opting instead to question her about her own time in university.

"I hope you're not feeling awfully tired, Theodore." She didn't call him Teddy. She suspected that nobody dared call him Teddy.

"Not at all. Or are you going to leave me now?"

"Not for the world. It's later than I usually stay, but I'm afraid that you're keeping me wide awake."

Poor Bobby boy was upstairs, sleeping. He'd probably falling asleep thinking about how to make her happy, too. Everyone called _him_ Bobby. His parents, friends. She knew he'd never do anything like what she was doing. He was good ol' bumbling Bobby. Maybe he was even too good for her, but that hardly mattered.

Tiffany assumed Theodore felt the same way about his own wife. He probably had her begging for his attentions.

The two of them paid for their drinks and she let him help her put on their coat. They would have their fun and then forget that it had happened. She wouldn't ask for his number. After all, the man was cheating on his wife. Contempt coursed through Tiffany's veins at the thought.

As they left the bar towards the elevators, the receptionist was nowhere to be found. A man in one of the chairs looked up from his laptop and gave her a nod.

Just have your fun and run. People like Theodore were not worth falling in love with.

_You can't trust someone like that,_ thought Tiffany. The man was hideous on the inside.

***

Sanjhit ran his hands through his hair, sitting in the break room. After a few minutes, Martin walked in.

"Devin wants another coffee," he mumbled while Mr. Mouse sniffed.

"Oh, Devin," said the receptionist while clutching a fistful of his own hair. "Once he gets started with the coffee, he just can't get enough."

"...You alright?"

"Yeah. Sometimes it just sucks."

"What does?"

"The people we work for. Some of them aren't worth it. If Hart was mine, I'd kick out the man in 101. The woman in 108, too."

"Come on, buddy."

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed. "I just hate it so much. Don't you hate it, Mr. Mouse?"

Mr. Mouse chose to nod. Either that, or he'd seen something on the floor of his cage.

# Pleasant Perseverance

Nanami traced the smile on her lips using the barest tip of her finger.

Her phone was nowhere to be found, as was her love. Nanami was only half American, and so phrases often came to her mind that made little sense when translated. It was a little like in that show, where the white haired lady kept calling somebody the moon of her life. Nanami didn't really watch it.

"What are you smiling about?" Asked Jacob. He sat across from her in the reception hall. The man's phone lay abandoned on his lap.

She said, "Look who's talking."

"Can you blame me?"

"Not really. Anything good going on?"

"Nope. 2017 is... Hahah!" He startled her with the laugh. Often, he only laughed in a handsome grin. Suddenly, her husband winced and reached for the scar on his right cheek.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he replied, "Just a little stretch."

"So, why were you laughing?"

"Was about to say that 2017 was a terrible year."

That was funny, Nanami couldn't lie about it.

All things considered, she guessed that you could think of 2017 as a bad year. Global warming was worse than ever, and it seemed as if politics all over the world is trying to cannibalize itself. Then again, child mortality was at an all-time low.

Nanami couldn't keep the smile off her face, but she tried to, anyhow. It was part of her culture. It was late. Far later than she usually went to bed at, but they'd stayed in their room enough for one night. Besides, the Wi-Fi downstairs was great. Across from her, Jacob put his white headphones into his ear and almost disappeared like Frodo. His headphones were The One Ring in audio reception form. She knew that he was watching... Friends, probably, judging from the twinkle in his eyes.

Nanami thought about how hard it had been to get their respective families to shake hands. In a way, it was her fault, and it made her glad that Jacob's parents were so understanding. But it was done. You had no idea how hard it was to get people who can't stand each other to sit around a table and have a civil conversation. She'd had to make all kinds of concessions for the affair to take place.

It was almost 3am. She could see Jacob begin to nod off halfway into his episode. "Sure that you don't want to go to sleep?" She wondered aloud, seemingly for her own benefit.

He looked up and took one earbud off, wiping his face.

"Sleep?"

"No, no," Jacob said, flashing another slow smile, "I wouldn't miss a chance to talk with O-tou san for the world."

She knew that he only half meant it, but Nanami didn't say anything.

"Otou san?" Interjected a young man who sat next to Jacob, "Hoo...Desunee landuuu desu. Sugee, Sugee!"

Oh boy. It was hardly a phrase, but the young African American lad had tried to say, "Dad? Wow, Disney land is amazing!"

She gave the young man an amused stare while Jacob bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

"I'm fine with English," she stated politely

"Sorry, sorry, ya'll, I just to, uh, practice a bit."

Jacob asked, "You're a local?"

"Sure thing."

"Weird to see a local staying at a hotel."

"I'm just here 'cause my dad has a meeting with the owner. Now why oh _why,_ " he added with a shake of his head, "someone would hold a meeting at midnight and stay three whole hours is beyond me, but here I am."

"Wow. It must've been hard," tried Nanami.

"'s alright, the Wi-Fi in here is amazing, right, sir?"

"Yip. I'm Jacob, by the way."

"No way! I'm Jacob too!"

"Wow," replied Jacob with a yawn.

"No need to act so excited," teased Nanami.

"Hey, I'm just tired!" Her husband smiled again. Subtle, so like him, he glanced up at the clock.

"Oh."

She wondered how best to broach the topic.

"I'll let you guys talk for a while," she offered.

The dark skinned young man almost leapt to his feet. "I hope I didn't interrupt," he said.

"I just need to take a call."

With that, she stood up and picked up her tablet, heading over to sit on their side but four seats away.

It hit 3am. just as her tablet rang. Right on time.

"Good day, father," she said in Japanese, looking at an elderly man who sat on a bench in a park somewhere.

"Good day."

"How have you been?"

"Fine."

"It has been too long since we last spoke. I hope that you've been well and apologize for this shameful appearance on my part." She spoke carefully.

"There is no shame. How goes your work?"

"My vacation is splendid. Virginia is as you described." Of course it was. If anyone knew how to do research, it was her father. It was his job, after all.

"And your new husband? He treats you well?"

"Yes. He would like to speak to you later."

"I see. That is good. First, however, tell me about these past few months."

Although they met a few weeks earlier, they hadn't had the chance to talk. Nanami was actually surprised that her father even made it. He'd been terribly busy with the complexities of marine biology.

"They have asked to have me back at work."

"Good. Make sure they need you. Work is all about knowing exactly where to put your strengths. Specialize, and they will forever panic in your absence."

"Yes." Involuntarily, her head did a little bow.

"And the bosses? They do not give you a hard time?"

"No, father."

"Excellent." He softened slightly, just as a leaves blew in front of his face, obscuring her father for a second or two. "You know, I never meant for it to be this way."

Her lips tightened. "I know."

"I thought you'd relent, but it was me all along. So many years, and it turns out the fault was mine."

"Father..."

"I apologize. Truly and honestly, I do."

She didn't know what to say.

"Y-you were only trying to do what's best."

"That is no excuse. I did not know what was best. When the time comes, may I see your child?"

"Of course."

"I'm proud of you. Now, let me speak to that husband of yours."

Usually, when you don't know what to say, it's best not to say anything at all. Nanami took the device to Jacob and walked away. There was no sense of victory in her, but she was happy nonetheless. It was the kind of soft happiness you find in pies. Something about the texture, maybe, the world giving way before your mouth. Or maybe it was just that she loved her father.

Nanami walked and walked, going around the reception hall while her father and husband spoke. She saw the hurt dignity in Jacob's face, and it reminded Nanami of the day he told her about how he'd gotten the scar on his cheek.

Eventually, Nanami found herself in a white room. In the room were two men and a mouse in a cage. The mouse sniffed at her intrusion.

"Oh," she said, realizing that she'd entered the staff room by mistake. The two men froze.

"Ma'am," said the receptionist.

"I wasn't really thinking," she told him, "Sorry."

The other man didn't say anything, but he paused while cutting a pie. Just then, a woman entered the room behind Nanami.

"Oops."

A hand fell on Nanami's shoulder, and she took a step in the wrong direction. The blonde haired man moved to steady her. Suddenly, there was a slice of pie on her clothes.

A few minutes later, the receptionist finished apologizing while the blonde haired one buried his head in his hands. The waitress who'd entered last was somewhere in between –half apologetic, half ashamed.

"It's quite alright," Nanami told them while sipping coffee. "It happens to the best of us."

"This is the first time this has happened," said the receptionist.

The blonde haired man moaned.

"It's my fault for entering the staff room anyhow."

The mouse looked at the waitress.

"Oh well," said the waitress weakly, "2017 has been horrible anyway. This is just," she paused for effect, "the icing on the cake."

"I wouldn't say so," replied Nanami, "It's been a pretty great year for me."

"Oh."

"I mean, it's finally the year I got married in."

"Woah, wait. When did you get married?"

"Just a few months ago."

The waitress put her hand over her face. "Great. I pushed a bride into a pie. Seven years of bad luck."

"That's mirrors," grinned the receptionist in the button-up tunic. "On behalf of the staff at Hotel Hart, ma'am, congratulations."

"Thank you," replied Nanami.

"What did you mean," said the waitress as she got up and poked at the mouse with a manicured finger, "Ow! What did you mean by finally?"

"It took a while."

"Oh, money..."

The receptionist gave her a sharp glance, and the waitress put her hand up in surrender. "Hey, we're bonding over coffee here."

"Well, no, the thing is..."

She told them.

"What?! Eight _years?!_ "

"Jennifer," said the receptionist, "don't."

"Hey, she should have told her dad to-" the receptionist put his hand on the waitress' mouth with a sigh.

"Sorry, about that, esteemed guest," he recited in an oh-come-on-how-often-do-I-have-to-do-this tone, "Jennifer often forgets that her tongue is connected to her brain."

"Mmf!"

"Anyway, we're happy for your wedding."

"Thank you," said Nanami, "and it wasn't like that. We weren't really forced, it's just that... we..."

By that time, Jennifer had regained her composure and sat down on her chair, albeit noisily.

"It's just that we wanted his approval. There was no reason to run behind his back, as if we were doing something wrong and needed to hide."

"Then there's the customs part of it," added the receptionist knowingly.

"Yeah. We wanted it to be happy. Really happy. What's the word...wholesome, you know?"

"It must have been hard."

"Kind of. I think it was worth it, though. I want my kids to have a grandfather."

It occurred to Nanami that she'd perhaps said too much. Maybe it was because it was so late, but the cozy atmosphere in the white room felt more like that of a living room somehow.

***

When the woman had left, Jennifer turned on Sanjhit.

"Eight years, man?"

"I can't imagine waiting so long for a parent's permission," admitted Sanjhit. Then again, there were probably things in his own culture that the lady from room 103 would find just as unbelievable.

"It should be criminalized, it should be!"

"They're just different," said Martin.

"And you! You have to get over your Silent Treatment."

"It's not like that, Jennifer."

"Let the poor guy be," said Sanjhit. Jennifer was actually almost five years older than him, but she didn't act like it.

"Fine... But it's not just me, right? Waiting eight years is crazy. She should have just told her dad to buzz off. If she couldn't, maybe even try with another relationship."

"No idea," replied Sanjhit with just a hint of jealousy, "I don't think I've ever been in love like that."

"And just listening to your dad and keeping your head down?"

The receptionist didn't say anything, but he remembered a boy who'd begged for money near a dirt road. Well, the boy had performed for his money, albeit badly. That boy had looked people in the eyes, even when they threw rocks at him. There had been a fire in that kid. If Sanjhit had to guess, the woman and her husband hadn't been keeping their heads down for eight years. Quite the opposite.

# Frank Fears

"This was a mistake."

"No it wasn't," replied Frank's wife. Frank's eyes, which had been glued to the digital clock on his bedside table, glowed a bright green in the darkness. The green was the wrong color –a disturbing neon that threatened to burn itself onto Frank's eyes. Four, they said. Four-zero-zero. Damn.

Outside Hart, Virginia, was a dull black backdrop, like a canvas that nobody had drawn in. Or maybe someone had drawn too long. The red curtains were barely even red in the deep darkness.

"It was. I couldn't even close my eyes."

This was true. Each blink brought an image with it. Resting his eyes for seconds caused a dull throb to start at Frank's temple, and it spread all the way to the back. Even worse, closing his eyes for more than an instant caused a movie to start playing behind his brown eyes. This night is going to steal what little hair remained on the fringes of his head.

"You need to rest," a voice told him from the other side of the bed.

Frank's sock itched. Maybe that was why he couldn't sleep. His shoes were by the door, neat and tied. They weren't tied in bunny ears.

Frank turned, panning over the dark room until he made out something that looked like a caring wife.

"I know, but."

"The eyes."

"Yes. I just can't sleep. I can't. I'll let you."

"I don't have a license."

"That's okay, I'll watch out for you."

"Frank, I can't even drive!"

"Then let me drive."

"No!"

"I'll sleep at the hospital." He looked at his wife earnestly. Unlike him, she'd aged well. All rosy and lush. Even her hair seemed more vibrant than all of Frank combined. She had a ring of tiny moles around her neck. The darkness couldn't hide how beautiful she was, but it also didn't hide that she didn't believe him. "I promise we'll get there alright," Frank added.

"And I promise that she'll still be there when we arrive. Honey. Look, Frank. Look."

He looked.

"I understand that you're scared," she told him, holding his hands. "I'm scared too. I promise I am. But it is my job to be here for you. It's my favorite job. I love you."

He didn't look at her. Even as dire as the circumstances were if he looked at her while she said that she loved him, he'd smile.

"Do you love me?"

He looked at her and smiled.

"I love you too," Frank admitted. The way she looked at him was unfair. For a second, it almost lit up the room. Then he remembered why he was afraid.

Frank fussed with his watch. Four oh-five. He whispered, "I can't wait."

"Yes, you can. You need to be there for her as well."

"Exactly."

"So you need to be there."

"Yes."

"In one piece."

"Okay."

"Safe. Sleep. I'll wake you up around five."

Frank turned over, back towards the digital clock. Four-oh-six.

It wasn't like it had taken them completely unawares. This had been coming slowly. It's just so much faster than anyone had anticipated.

"So much faster," he said. The fear pulled him in. He'd thought he was prepared, but terror gripped him hard.

"It'll be okay," replied his wife, "She'll bounce right back. You'll see."

"Okay." Despite the words, terror bit Frank's ear. It told him that she wasn't going to bounce back at all. She was going to get crushed. It was the difference between a trampoline and hard concrete.

"I promise," she said, "things are going to be okay. I love you."

"I love you too."

She had stopped putting her hand on his head. Ever since he started going bald, Frank had been touchy about his head. Because of this, Frank's wife put her hand on his shoulder instead. It filled him with warmth.

"She'll be fine?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

His phone rang at four-one-zero.

They had talked about it and agreed that she should answer. The words 'just in case' weren't uttered. They had just said that Frank shouldn't be the one to answer.

Despite the promises of five hours earlier, Frank answered the phone. One second he was staring at a green clock by the bed, the next his phone was against his ear.

"Yes?"

He was sure that she was dead. The fear had his knees shaking. It was terrifying.

Someone said something.

"I don't understand," Frank told the person.

The person, his father, said it again. He said some more things and Frank listened. It made no sense.

"Okay. Thank you."

His father tried to say something else but Frank hung up. His wife stood in front of him, anxious.

"What is it?" She wondered aloud.

"It happened."

"What?"

"It happened.

"Honey..."

"It happened."

She moved towards him, but Franks fists were clenched and he warned, "Don't touch me, Faith."

"Baby, I am so sorry."

"I swear to God, don't you dare touch me."

"It was her-"

"You promised."

The phone fell from his hands. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.

"You promised. I could have been there and you didn't want me to go there and I listened to you. I listened because you promised."

He left the room. Luckily, he'd already been fully clothed. Just his shoes, which were not tied in bunny ears. No, they were tied like a duck's beak.

Frank wore them, opened the door, and left his wife in the room.

The corridor was too bright to be real. The carpets, red and soft, absorbed his footsteps, even though Frank thundered down the way like a madman. He couldn't even remember the number of the room. He tried not to blink because if he did, the memories would come flooding in.

An old woman stepped out of a door when he stumbled against the wall. "Drunks," she said, then Frank glared at her. He was a big man, and the old lady promptly shut the thing and turned back inside.

For a time, Frank wandered. He went by a library, but it just reminded him of children's books, and an old man was snoring on a heap of old tomes. By the pool, another man was telling a woman something about dealing with loss, so Frank couldn't handle that. A young man was talking to someone on his tablet in the reception hall.

"Hello, Mr. O'Donnell," said the receptionist, but Frank ignored him.

Eventually, Frank found himself outside and fully clothed. He looked down to his shoes. The strings wouldn't come loose, he knew. Duck's Beak.

Some of the buildings around still dripped slightly. Because he wasn't looking, Frank stepped in a puddle. He sat on a bench in a park somewhere, where he could still see things. He looked around and tried not to remember.

Frank looked everywhere: The park, trees, soggy dirt. Something flapped somewhere, and the storm moved far away. The moon looked down on him, as did the lighthouse in the distance. Its beacon looked oddly like a star. Lastly, Frank looked at Hotel Hart's sign. It was the head of a stag. Eyeless and oddly curvy, there was no expression on the logo.

"Here he is, ma'am," said someone, causing Frank to squint. His wife was next to the receptionist, coming towards him.

"Faith," said Frank. "I don't want to talk to anyone."

"I'm sorry," she told him, "but I told the receptionist I needed to find you."

Frank didn't want to deal with this, but he eyed the receptionist. "Thank you," he grumbled reluctantly.

"It was no issue, sir. If I may say so," said the receptionist, "you aren't the first guest we've had to hunt down." He winked. "But I am...truly sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it must be like."

"Thank you." It was stiff, but it was the best Frank could do.

The receptionist left them. Frank's wife sat next to him.

"You promised," he told her quietly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I could have been there to say goodbye. You were worried that I'd be safe... I don't feel safe right now."

"It was my fault. There was no way we could have known. Honey, I love you. I'm sorry."

"I love you too."

It was a little too early to forgive her, Frank thought, but he still loved Faith.

"My mother is dead now. I don't have a mother anymore. I'm an orphan."

Everything hurt and it made no sense.

"Tell me about her?" She asked. Faith knew all about Frank's mother.

"She used to teach me how to tie my shoes. Pop was a no-good...whatever he was. I can't remember. So one of my first memories was mom teaching me how to tie my shoes. She called it the Duck's Beak, her way."

And Frank talked about his mother, and Faith listened. It wasn't alright, yet Frank thought it might be, one day.

His mother was dead, but Faith was there. It was okay to hurt for a while.

***

Sanjhit, after escorting Mrs. O'Donnell from room 105 to her husband, did not return to the reception hall. Instead, he went over to the alleyway where Morty sometimes sat. Sanjhit sat with his back to a brick wall and hugged his knees. Pain had a weird way of crouching in the tall grass, dagger in hand, and waiting for you to show your back. Maybe it was a predator, like a lion.

The thing that had triggered Sanjhit's pain that day was telling Mr. O'Donnell that he didn't know what losing a mother felt like. Of course the receptionist didn't know what losing a mother was like.

The brown-skinned youth was originally from Delhi; in his opinion a far prettier place than Virginia could ever be, but also a relatively crueler land.

After a few minutes in the dark with his head in his hands, Sanjhit got up and dusted off his uniform. Maybe Martin or Jennifer or even Devin would be up for a chat.

Pain, like predators, tended to retreat if you were among friends.

# Mystery Mistakes

Loving someone that much just wasn't fair.

Sandra rolled about in her bed in room 101. It was no use, there was no way that she would be able to sleep. Despite this, she didn't turn on the light next to her bed. There's a special pleasure to be found in squinting at your phone's glaring lights while in an otherwise dark room.

Sandra flipped through her phone messages. Snapchat, Whatsapp, Instagram; the works. Sandra even watched a few cooking videos on Youtube, made by the channel Foodwishes.

A message came on Whatsapp. It said, _last seen at 5:22. What?_

_I'm tired, Sam,_ Sandra typed.

That's not the point. The point is that people on romantic vacations shouldn't have time for Whatsapp.

You stalker.

Not the point either. Wyd?

Just trying to sleep. You?

Dancing with Mr. Anderson.

Mr. Anderson was Sam's cat. Sam was what one might call a premature cat lady, except he was a man.

_I have no idea why he's taking you to Virginia of all places,_ Sam said.

Virginia is nice.

In august.

I like it.

Heh.

Sandra didn't like the sound of that 'Heh'. It signaled a rant. Her phone said that it was around 5:30, which was usually the right time for Sam to start ranting.

_Work going fine?_ Asked Sandra.

It's awful. I can't wait to get myself one of those cash mamas and quit for good.

Marriage isn't about getting a permanent vacation. Besides, you'd make a terrible stay-at-home dad.

Who said anything about being a dad?

Sandra couldn't think of anything to reply with. She rolled over in bed. Five thirty.

Through the window, Sandra saw the lighthouse. It was taller than you'd expect, with cream colored paint and the occasional red brick here and there. Probably, the thing had saved many lives, and it continued to shine bright over the Atlantic. Being a slightly superstitious lady, Sandra asked the thing to guide her man home. He'd gone for a swim.

Sandra's husband was, basically, the perfect man. He was built slightly like a statue, or maybe Clark Kent. Just like superman, he also tended to disappear every so often, only to re-appear right when he's needed. The man literally volunteered as a firefighter.

It was their last night at Hotel Hart, which meant that tomorrow, the couple would move on farther north. Sam would be jealous to go on holiday the way Sandra did. That's what happens when you become a playboy: You lose out on the kind of love that can only ever exist between two people.

Sandra put a hand through her lush mane, thinking that it might be about time for her to sleep, even if her husband wouldn't be coming back for a bit. She texted him a quick goodbye and turned onto her side, thinking about next week and the private aviation expo.

So focused she was on her thoughts, Sandra suddenly found herself on a cloud. She was the kind of person who never realized that they were in a dream, however, and so standing on water vapor was perfectly natural. I mean, how else are you supposed to get to the sky expo?

"Welcome, child," said the flight attendant, "to the giant festival in the sky."

Balloons floated upwards everywhere, framed by the golden gates of the festival grounds. In the distance, Sandra could see stands, where people gave out cards and carts. One particular stand was occupied by a single, short-haired woman who smiled at everyone and painted animal faces on the animals.

"Where are the private jets?" Sandra asked the flight attendant by the gate.

"Oh, they're on the right, Madame. We have a special Tuesday offer today. Buy one, get one free!"

"But it isn't Tuesday," reasoned Sandra.

"What? Not Tuesday!"

A murmur went through the crowd and the sky turned red.

"Every day is Tuesday in Plane Land!"

"Oh, that makes sense, I suppose. In that case, does your offer include cheesy crusts?"

"Of course," said the flight attendant while high-fiving the short-haired stand woman, who suddenly appeared next to him. "What use is a plane without cheesy crusts? They're the best part. Anyhow, Madame, you do need to come inside the event grounds, we must close the gates in a bit."

"But my husband isn't here."

"We really can't wait."

Sandra spent a few years thinking about this. On the one hand, she could go inside and get something for her man. On the other, she really didn't want to go inside without him. He was a little bit like a plane's cheesy crust in that regard.

"Are you sure that we can't keep the gates open?"

"No can do," said the flight attendant.

"Just a little bit? Until he gets here?"

The man shook his head sadly.

"In that case, I'll wait for him. I need to wait for him. I love him, you know."

The flight attendant sighed while closing the gate, but Sandra didn't feel bad at all.

When Sandra woke up, the first thought that crossed her mind was that she really craved pizza. Then the details of the dream filtered into her mind. She grasped at them like a rock climber trying to crest a mountain, keeping them in place.

With the dream held in a tight headlock, Sandra pulled out her phone. She went to the notepad, where there were many entries, each to a date. She opened up a new file and titled it _15/8/2017._

Or did it count as the 16th?

16/8/2017

Walking on clouds. There was a heaven, but it was about the flight expo. It was really fun; also weird. I didn't want to go in alone.

After the two lines, Sandra added all the details that she could remember. She spent a paragraph describing the balloons in detail. Then she spent a few minutes watching some more videos on instagram.

_I hate Netflix,_ Sam texted, but Sandra didn't reply. She knew that another rant was coming.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Sandra smiled to herself.

"Secret code?" She demanded.

One knock came, then four, then three.

I love you.

She leapt to her feet and opened the door, hugging her husband. He looked tired.

"Hey, honey. It was terrible not being with you," he told her in his deep, soothing voice. Her heart swelled at just how much she cared about him.

"You don't even know, baby."

"I heard someone shout a little while on my way here. Did you hear anything?"

"Nope. Someone probably had a bad dream. Which reminds me, I had an amazing one earlier. About the expo. You need to know!"

She closed the door, simply happy to be with the one person who loved her more than anything else in the world. He gazed at her and again, Sandra realized that it was just unfair how much she loved him.

She was so focused on the feeling that she didn't even pause to consider that despite claiming he'd gone for a swim, Theodore still smelled like his cologne.

***

"No, really, I am," said Sanjhit.

"Yeah, and I'm a supermodel," snorted Jennifer.

"Okay, it's true that at the moment, I'm not looking for anything serious-"

"At the moment?"

"-but I'm really romantic!"

"Calm down, guys," interjected Martin.

Jennifer insisted, "I will not calm down. It's just us now."

The reception hall was darkened the way it rarely was. Often, Hotel Hart remained open and waiting for walk-ins, but since the hotel was completely full for the night, Sanjhit didn't see the harm in conserving some electricity. Martin, Jennifer and Sanjhit sat on the chairs by the entrance, watching a movie and chatting.

"You," said Jennifer, poking Sanjhit with her index finger, "are the biggest workaholic I know. You barely do anything else."

"Working is good."

"Sure sure, but calling yourself a 'hopeless romantic' is plain stupid." This comment was accompanied by a snicker.

"And you?" challenged the receptionist. He lazily undid his tunic's buttons. On the screen in front of them, the couple were arguing about something. Well, they weren't a couple yet. At the moment, the two were competing radio hosts.

"Not a one note sort of gal. I'm still exploring the world and stuff. Hey, love isn't for everyone, really. What do you think, Martin?"

"Love is scary," the man replied.

"What do you mean?"

"You love someone enough. They make you happy. Great. They can also make you sad."

It was a very Martin way to put it, but both Sanjhit and Jennifer nodded.

"I think it's worth it," announced Sanjhit. "It's true that you can get hurt but..."

"But?"

"It sounds too simple. Cliché. But I believe there's an upper limit to sadness. I don't think that exists for happiness. Loving someone with all your heart sounds worth it. It's the best risk you could possibly make."

"Wow," Jennifer said. Sanjhit smiled, but the waitress added, "That really is a cliché."

Martin added, "Just don't fall in love with bad people. I'll go check up on Mr. Mouse; he's been lonely lately."

# Elusive Ends

Morty yelped, "Don't come in, Ed!"

Just as Edith opened the door, Morty threw a towel, which she could have dodged. He knew that she could have. Instead, Edith just looked at the towel while it flew in the air like. What? Sparrows? Sparrows. It flew in the air like sparrows. Something flew. He forgot what.

The towel hit Edith in the face while she stared at it. "Errumph!" she shouted.

"Get out!" he replied, shivering while covering himself. Idiot, coming in even though she could hear the shower.

Despite Sanjhit's assertions that Edith was Morty's friend, the two had only known one another for a couple of weeks. He'd seen her outside a soup kitchen he frequented. At the time, she had been trying to talk to a... something.

Morty continued taking his shower, relishing the chance to actually be clean for once. It wasn't a chance that came often enough. People give food and drink, and you can find a place to sleep more often than not. The problem for people like Morty was always the showers.

"What kind of idiot doesn't lock the door?" Demanded a voice from the room.

He didn't answer. A part of him had recoiled when she walked in. That part always did.

"You sure you don't wanna sleep?" She asked.

"Yip." In fact, he did want to sleep. Morty just didn't want to sleep around her. He didn't know her well enough.

When he was fully cleaned, Morty took a look at his clothes. He should have showered earlier. It would have given him time to wash his underwear. The itch was starting to get really bad, like a tickle that sat on your skin too long. Or maybe like when underwear isn't washed for more than a month. Sadly, he hadn't been able to shower earlier, on account of watching a movie on the TV. After that, he'd spent an hour getting distracted by a thread from the carpet that had found its way onto the white wall. It had looked oddly like a tapeworm. Upon thinking that, Morty realized that he didn't actually know what tapeworms looked like. Maybe that's why he'd been distracted.

Morty put on his underwear reluctantly, followed by a bathrobe. He smelled like butterfingers, but in the good way. Not buttered fingers, just caramel and that moment when you open up a wrapper and get ready for the first bite. He left the shower room and turned right to find Edith sitting on the bed mid-snore.

Oh.

She was dressed in more coats than you'd need, and the coats shed onto the bed. They reminded Morty of underwear itches, just all over your body. The thought made him scratch at his neck.

Morty sat down on a chair in the corner of the room. Edith had made space for him on the bed, but he didn't take it. Besides, her trademark flower with the hat on it was on the bed as well: Edith literally thought the flower was sentient, which meant that it probably was. The flower maybe needed to rest too. Neither it nor its owner had gotten much sleep since Morty first met them.

The middle-aged man sat on the chair and tried to think. It didn't work. The lamplight sent shadows writhing across the white walls. One of them pointed it him. The shadow was shaped like an older woman with a cleaver in her hand. She gestured at him with her index finger. _Come._

No thanks.

That's why you never worked out well.

No.

Yes.

No.

It's all because you don't listen. That's why you'd been living like that for so long. Sad little Mortimer, tired little Mortimer. Morty, little baby, hush don't cry, or I'm gonna leave you out all night. Hush little baby, with that crap, or I might decide you need another slap.

Morty watched the shadows the way that he always did when this happened. He knew that sooner or later, the woman would disappear. He just had to pretend that she didn't exist. If other people found out that he could see her, the shadow-woman would tell them to fire Morty from his job. To stop renewing his lease. To refuse to let him into the shop because he smelled like cabbage. Horrible things happen when the shadow lady tells people about Morty. Even worse, he was the only one who could see her.

"Hng!" said Edith, which was actually an Edith thing to say.

"Rise and shine," Morty told her. She wiped some slobber off her jaw and fixed one of the wispy grays on the top of her head.

"How long was I out?"

"Oh, just a bit. You slept a lot earlier."

"Good. I've been needing to sleep."

"Going to take a shower?"

She sighed.

"You don't have to."

"No, it's all good."

She stood up and stretched a little.

Morty tried to goad her with, "Water's hot."

"I know, it's just. I'm just starting to smell like _me._ "

"Not a good thing."

"It is when chemicals are all over you."

Warily, Morty eyed her arm.

"No, not like that, God, no," she assured him. "Just all that shampoo and stuff. My flower hasn't been growing, you know."

"Because of the chemicals?"

"Yeh! Anyway, fancy pants, I'll go take a shower. I need to. I've been smelling horrible since last week. Ever since that bird pooped on me."

She left, taking up the second bathrobe as she did. She left Morty alone in the room with the shadows with the lamp, but thankfully, the shadow lady didn't return. Maybe she was in the shower with Edith. If she was, the woman wouldn't know.

Suddenly the lamp flickered, sending shadows dancing. Morty huddled in the chair.

_Gonna snap again?_ Asked the shadow lady. _Do it, I miss seeing it, Mortimer, my chicklet._

No, I won't.

Come on, it'll be fun. You'll lose that receptionist friend. You'll be all alone again. You're better off that way. Nobody would care about you anyways.

It was true. Other than Sanjhit, nobody even knew who Morty was. The shadows taunted him. They'd find him. They'd make him change again, like on his last day of work. If he wasn't careful the people would find him under the table, crying in a puddle of his own vomit because the stress was too much and because the shadows were making fun of him. They'd know that he was crazy. He'd lose everything.

Oh, wait. That already happened. The realization startled Morty so much that he stopped being afraid of the shadow lady.

Eventually, Edith came out of the shower all squeaky clean. She paused twelve feet away from Morty. "You okay?"

"I think so. Going to go back to sleep?"

"Nah. What is up with the lamp?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

"What's that?"

"Nothing!"

She hid her arms.

"You said it wasn't that."

"It's not, I swear."

"Then what is it?"

"Needles."

"I knew it."

"No, there's nothing inside."

Morty didn't know how to reply. Because of this, he asked, "Do they hurt?"

"No. They just hurt."

"Makes sense."

"I don't have to use them when my flower is safe."

"Is it safe right now?"

"Yes."

"Good."

For a little while, nobody said anything. Morty promptly forgot about the needles.

Edith came over to sit next to him, but the man moved away, towards the bed. However, it smelled like Edith, and so he settled for sitting on the floor.

"You can sit on the bed."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because of women."

"Women?"

"Women. Woman."

"Which one?" She inquired. Morty didn't answer.

For a while, they sat and watched the movie. It made no sense. There was a girl and a hole and a rabbit. It was stupid.

"This movie is stupid," said Edith.

"So true. I can make a better joke."

"The movie doesn't have jokes."

"Here's a quick one."

"Ok."

"One in four frogs is a leap frog."

"I... heheh."

Nice.

Edith turned in her seat on the bed. "My turn."

"Okay."

"What was I before all of this?"

Morty said that he didn't know.

"I was a social worker."

They shared a good laugh over that. Sharing a laugh, Morty thought, was a little like sharing a life. The only difference was a few letters. Wait, that wasn't right.

"It's so irony!" He said.

"What were you?"

"An accountant. Before, you know."

"Yeah..."

The laughter died off. Morty felt warm on the carpet. He was clean and smelled like a human. Maybe he could...

"Maybe I could be an accountant again?"

_Never,_ teased the shadow lady.

"Sure."

"Really?"

Really.

"Really."

"I was a branch accountant. Not a tree, a branch. Then I did the thing branches do."

"What's that?"

"Snapped."

"This movie is really stupid. I should tell you how it happened to me."

"Okay."

For a few seconds, she looked like a completely different person. There were coals insider her brain. He knew because he could see the glow.

"Medications. Some weird thing that didn't work with my head. I took too many a few times, then more, and more. And every time it got worse until I couldn't go out the house. Everything was wrong, you know? I'd get trapped in the house and I wouldn't be able to figure out how to get out because if I forgot the keys the house would burn down and I wouldn't be able to go in. I'd die."

That made perfect sense.

"I," he started, "I... err... It's always been there. I probably could've kept it down or gotten help."

"Help helps."

"But... uh..."

Yes, focus on me.

"What are you looking at?" Asked Edith.

"Nothing," he said automatically.

Good.

"Okay. My flower heard you say something."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I can see something in the dark. In the shadows."

"Oh no." Instead of dismissing him, laughing, or even fleeing the room, the woman just appeared curious. "What is it?"

"A woman. Look." He pointed.

To his astonishment, Edith said, "Wow, she's ugly." Her eyes were pearly wide. No, they were wide like pearls. Or the moon. Yes, like the moon.

"You can see her?"

"Yes. Who is she?"

"My aunt."

"Oh. How did she become a shadow?"

"I don't know. She's dead now, but she was a shadow before she died."

"Does she hurt you?"

"...yes."

"But she's a shadow."

"Yes, but a shadow can hurt you. Never underestimate a shadow. Or an aunt around a young boy. Never underestimate what an evil aunt can do to a little boy."

Edith didn't ask exactly what his aunt had done to him, and Morty didn't climb into the bed or sit anywhere near her. He shrugged and shivered and said, "Can we talk about something else?"

They talked about lots of things, like why oranges were orange and how you can get extra cheese in your soup in the soup kitchen. Soon enough, it was 6:50 in the morning. They got dressed and headed down the stairs.

The reception hall was still a little dark, but the sky outside was starting to become grey. Despite there being many shadows in the hall, none of them looked like a woman. Morty hadn't slept, but he felt more like a human being than he had in years. Showers can do that. Talks, too.

"Morning, Shen Shi," said Morty when he saw the receptionist.

***

"Good morning, Morty," replied Sanjhit, as professional as ever despite how tired he was. "Pleasant night?"

"Yup, best I've had in a while. Thanks a ton."

"Hey, if you don't use our free rooms, then it's just a waste."

Mr. Rosenthal had gotten the extra room just for his pride, but that didn't make it any less of a good deed.

Morty and the woman handed in their key cards. They didn't stay for breakfast. Rather, the two simply ambled next to one another. It could have been a trick of the light, but Sanjhit felt like he saw their hands brush slightly while they walked.

Jennifer and Martin were off doing their thing. Soon, the guests would begin to come downstairs for the Hart's free complimentary breakfast. The guests in 106 would miss it, and he assumed the Rosenthals in 200 would miss it as well. He began to print out the prices for their stay, since those two would want to be off for the clubhouse Phaethon early. Technically, that room should always be reserved, but _that_ person never showed up, just paid monthly rates.

It was good that the Hotel happened to fill up, though. He always felt a little happier when that happened. They even gave Mr. Mouse an extra treat for working as a good luck charm.

Sanjhit, a man of Delhi who'd inexplicably found himself in Virginia for a few years, didn't know much about his guests. He didn't know the stories of their stay on the 15th of August, and even if he asked, they would simply state that they slept fine. Later, he might find out through Yelp whether that was true or not.

To the receptionist in the green button-up tunic, it was just another night in Hotel Hart. Time to finish up his shift and head off for his own bit of rest.

***

This is the end of the book. I'm happy that you got here. If you'd like to connect, find me in the Association of Merry Makers, a blog of three authors.

I said earlier that if you finished, I would tell you a secret.

I love you.
