“They’re all booked, there is nothing else, nothing left.”
He started to move away but she tugged on the tip of his tie, and within seconds became a ballast to the uneven lean she placed on the heel of her left stiletto. Only weak enough to give his doubt out freely, he fell backwards upon her grasp, then found himself on the eighth stair, alongside her.
“I work in warning labels.” He told her.
“I have several tattoos.” She told him.
“We never exactly knew, but we looked for the broken ones. The rooms without smoke detectors, the chairs with weak legs.” He put his hand on the burn on her knee. “It was our job to wrestle with this negligence. Now we’re on these lists, and I can’t get a hotel room, I can’t.”
His hands lost the race to the back of her neck, some necklace chain winning every night of her every Saturday.
He moved her.
“Edith… it means rich, happy, or war.”
In front of the fireplace now, in the hotel lobby, she spilled her legs in the heat. He watched her legs contend, and came up weak without warning.