“I knew I liked you,” she says, bumping into me. “Nobody says that.” She swipes her picture from the table and tucks it back in her apron pocket.
“It’s the smile,” I add “It’s clear you’re her reason too.”
She looks a little stunned by my answer. “Well,” she says, dabbing at her eyes, “can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you,” I say, raising my sub-par shake to her.
“Don’t mention it. Like I said, keeps life interestin’.” She winks at me and disappears through the wooden bi-fold doors into the kitchen.
I shuffle the food around my plate. Is that why I always chase the next best thing? Because it keeps life interesting?No. After this summer, I don’t think it’s the leaving that does that. It’s not a place that I’m seeking anymore but a feeling. I think I could be anywhere in the world and feel it if I wasn’t so scared of rejection.
I push a hand through my already rumpled hair. Or maybe it’s my head that’s scrambled from that all-nighter. I really need sleep.
I down the hamburger and fries and leave a twenty-dollar tip behind. Through drooping eyelids, I spot a little blue sign with a bed on it. It’s not even ten in the morning but I’ve already lived the longest day of my life.
I park the truck at the Best Western and drag my duffel bag through the river rock entrance and into the low-lit lobby.
“How can I help you?” An attendant in a matching burgundy suit vest and business skirt ditches a book with a scantily clad couple on the cover.
“I’d like a room please.”
“How many guests will be staying with you?” She scans the lobby.
“Just me.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up from her chest. The sharp points of her black nails clack against the keyboard. “One guest, one bed. I’ll need a form of ID and a credit card to put on file, please.”
Ifish my wallet from my pocket and pass the cards to her.
“Do you want to participate in our singles happy hour we’re having tonight? It’s free to all guests! You just have to RSVP.”
What part of these dark circles say single and ready to mingle?
“No thank you,” I say.
If this lady could hurry up and fork over my key I might actually make it to my room before passing out.
“Room 313. It’s on the third floor,” she clarifies.
“Thank you.” I shuffle to the elevator.
With the press of a button the doors slide part way open and pause. They hang there for about ten seconds before closing.
Perfect.
I give it a good five seconds before trying again. Same thing.
I have two choices here: stuff myself through the slot or hike up the stairs. I’d rather not compete in an Olympic sport in the condition I’m in. Turn and slide, it is.
With a shove, my bag clears the gap and swings toward the buttons highlighting floors one, two, and three.
This is beginning to feel like a series of comedy scenes all smashed together.
Joey Tribbiani and Buddy the Elf would be so proud.
When the doors clamp shut, I slump against the back wall. Even the key card acts a little faulty the first two tries when I find room 313.
As they say, third time’s the charm.
