30/10/17 - Short Story: Dead End

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     The emergency light for Room 18 has been blinking red on the reception desk for the last eleven rows of my knitting.  A guest has got trapped in their bed again.  It happens all the time, particularly to Yanks.  They got distracted halfway through my welcome speech, insisting on snapping photos of each other posing in front of the foyer’s picture window with its impressive view of the ruins.  A loud couple, her with a lurid bum-bag and him with a camera lens so big he must be compensating for something.  I had to stand there, their key outstretched and my voice trailing off as it became apparent that they were no longer paying any attention.  Eventually they remembered they were only halfway through the checking-in process and I was able to give them the customary health and safety tips.  Even when they deigned to listen to me, it was clear that they felt I was wasting their time.  They just wanted to get up to their room and see what all the fuss is about.  I finally gave them their key and he wheeled their supersize suitcase towards our rickety lift, while she paused and rummaged in the bag at her waist for a moment, pulling out a crumpled five pound note.  Immediately my mood lightened.  Maybe she’s not so bad.  They’re just tourists after all, they don’t know any better.  She eyed me carefully and then slowly and deliberately changed her mind.
     “Oh, sorry, I forgot that y’all don’t really do that here.  Silly of me.”  The tip slid back into the hot pink pouch and I had to force a gracious smile to stop myself from leaping over the reception desk and ripping her stupid tanned throat out.