1. Monique #2
I'm usually an expert at the hand-off that doesn't touch, but our fingers brush when I hand him the card. I swear it’s not intentional.
There’s that spike in my heart again, and heat begins to flush my cheeks.
This is ridiculous. I’m not a schoolgirl, but I have a crush. I shouldn’t go around having crushes. Yet I can’t help it.
The first time he checked in, he looked at me a beat too long and asked whether we'd worked together somewhere.
Have we worked together?
I told him no. I've never worked with anyone not within the four walls of this hotel. I thought it was a pickup line, that he would follow it up with something cringeworthy like the men in Rosa’s bakery. “Well, why don’t we get to know each other then?” Or something like that. But it never came.
So I assumed the crush was mine and mine alone.
He came back the next Friday, and the one after, and he's never asked me a single thing since that wasn't about his room.
Before he's pocketed the card, the couple at the next station goes up.
Mid-fifties, both dressed like they're disappointed in the lobby. The husband leans both forearms on the marble, chest forward. The wife stands a half step back, holding her purse in front of her with both hands flat on the bag. Her hands never move.
"I’ve explained to three people now," he says, loud enough to be heard. "This charge. We didn’t authorize this charge."
Priya, on that station, has gone tight at the eyes.
I excuse myself to Weston before stepping over to the next station.
“I can look at it with you,” I say to Priya. Then I turn to the puzzled guest. “May I?”
He slides the folio to me instead of handing it to me. I take it and read. The resort fee, itemized, disclosed at booking, explained twice per the file notes, printed in the confirmation he's holding in his own hand.
I knew this kind of man before I knew how to spell his job title.
I don't tell him the fee was disclosed. Telling a man like that he's wrong just hands him the fight he came for.
"Here's the line," I say, turning the folio, pointing. "And here's where it was set at booking. I can have the manager review it in the morning if you'd like. I'll note your file so it's the first thing they see." No apology.
There's nothing to apologize for, and apologizing for what isn't your fault only teaches a man he was right to lean.
He looks for another angle, but there isn't one. I've given him a way to feel heard without giving him anything that wasn't already his.
He finally straightens up and taps the folio against his palm. "See that they do."
The wife turns before he does. Her hands only leave the purse once they're already walking.
My gaze shifts back to Weston.
He's quietly waiting for me. He doesn't throw a fit or clear his throat or sigh — none of the small signals men use to make sure their waiting gets noticed.
He stands a few feet back, card in hand, watching the rain on the doors, content to just be next in line.
It’s rare. Might be a facade. After all, all men are the same.
When the couple moves off and I glance over with half an apology already loaded, he tips his head before I can spend it.
"No worries." He offers me a smile. I give him one back. "I do have one thing." He lifts a long, capped tube from under his arm, the kind that carries drawings. "It needs to go up to the room. Didn't want to leave it in the car."
I nod. “I’ll walk you to the residential elevator. It’s faster than logging it at the bell desk this late.”
“Great!” He waits until I’m walking in step with him toward the elevator.
Neither of us says anything. The silence is comfortable and familiar, as if I’ve been here before.
For some strange reason, I get the urge to fill the silence. It wouldn’t be unnatural to see me conversing with a guest.
What could I even say? Hi, my name is Monique, and I have a huge schoolgirl crush on you. I could try to sound like a normal person. What will the new Monique say?
And just like that, I have it.
"Long week?"
He chuckles. "The longest. Drove up from a site. The coast." He shifts the tube. "Easier to think with the building in front of you than the drawings of it."
"You build?"
"I build, or I’m trying to."
I don't get the chance to ask what he means because we’re now standing in front of the elevator.
He turns to face me. His eyes lock with mine, and it feels as though my soul might leave my body. “Thank you, Monique.”
I like the way he says my name. Like it’s precious, like it means something to him. I nod. I fear that if I open my mouth, the wrong words might escape.
He disappears behind the elevator doors, and I go back to my desk only to be welcomed by loud, boisterous singing.
I hear him before the doors open — that loud, declarative voice, a man narrating his own arrival to a lobby that didn't ask.
Same as always, a regular from the past few weeks.
He checks in rumpled, complains about his room on principle, leans on the desk to tell me false things about my own building.
Juan's already crossing the floor before he's fully inside. "Evening, sir, let's get you sorted."
And then the residential elevator opens, and Weston's back down, coat off, sleeves rolled to the forearm. He stops in front of me.
“Hey…” He scratches his chin and lets out a nervous laugh. “Does the business center printer take large formats? Turns out the drawings I meant to bring are in the car.”
I smile. I’m pretty sure he’s asked me this same question before. But last time, it was about some work documents, and he left them at his office. I know what I want this to be about, but I still wonder what’s truly going on in his head.
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood. The printer takes a large format.”
He says something — I won't even be able to tell you what later, something dry about the drive, the rain, and his poor memory — and it catches me sideways, under the part of me that's on duty, and I laugh.
A real one. Short, an exhale through the nose, the kind I don't hand out, and it's gone before I can call it back, and I catch myself catching it.
“Thanks, Monique. I guess I’ll see you later.” He gives me one last smile before leaving.
I turn my attention back to my computer.
Juan comes back across the lobby right then. He rounds the end of the desk and pretends to check the call log.
"You know who that is, right?" He gestures at Weston’s retreating back.
I don't look up from the screen. "A guest."
Juan’s eyes stay on me for a long second. "Oh, you're in for a real surprise."