Less Of Her

Frustration and Confrontation

For two days, I slipped through the hotel lobby like a thief, not wanting to catch the eye of anyone in case they realized I wasn't a paying guest and threw me out. Normally, I would do my utmost to avoid such an anxiety laden situation but there were compensations. The pillows, the bed, the clothes she left in the wardrobe, they all smelled like her. I had banned the maid service, a discreet sign hung outside the door. I spent each day, unable to concentrate, listlessly picking up projects only to drop them a few moments later. I compulsively checked my phone or my e-mail. I spent each lonely night in longing and frustration, surrounded by her scent.

On the third day, I was caught.

As I tried to slip from the elevator to the revolving door, I saw the receptionist look my way. She glanced to a man sitting on a sofa in the waiting area and nodded to him. He rose and quickly intercepted me before I could make my getaway. He was old, grey hair in a stiff short cut, almost military, and his face was lined and very tanned. The clothes he wore were tasteful, expensive: a jacket, shirt and tie. This was no uniform; he didn't look like a security guard or anyone who worked for the hotel. I began to fear he might be police.

"You are the woman staying in my daughter's room?" His voice was accented like Lumi's, harsh, deeper and more guttural. I was dumbfounded. I nodded, rooted to the spot.

"I am trying to find her but I understand she's not here now."

I nodded again, not venturing anything else, not making eye contact.

"You're definitely her type." He said, switching tact, his voice a little gentler, I looked up and he was smiling, it didn't look like something he did very often. "She always likes the shy ones."

I looked away again, too embarrassed to respond, even if I knew what to say.

"Please," he said, "I need to find her, to see her. She isn't well you know."

He must have seen the surprise on my face but I was coming to realize that I hardly knew Lumi at all. She had money but I never questioned where it came from. She never really spoke about friends, family, or a job. I was so caught up in her that I didn't want to break the spell by asking difficult questions.

He made to hand me a business card, and as I reached for it his eyes narrowed. He grabbed my arm and held my artificial hand up between us.

"I should have known," he growled. "Yes, you are too much her type. You have so much in common, don't you?"

I've known many reactions to my artificial hand; surprise, sympathy, curiosity. But never such anger, such hostility. He let go and I staggered away from him.

"Here," he said. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote something on the back of the card. Around the lobby, people were watching us, we were the center of attention. He thrust the card back at me and I took it from him hesitantly.

"When you see her again, call me. It will be worth your while."

He pivoted on his heels and stormed out of the lobby without a backwards glance. I turned over the bent and creased business card. There was a large number written on the back. A very large number. I was utterly bewildered. Clutching the card in my hand, I fled.