After five minutes of staring at my closed curtains, I dialed my messager. An ear-testing crackle sounded, and I peeked through the curtain gap, to see who might answer my call.
“Yyyyyello, Motel Fairwil. We’re outta mattresses.”
“I’m not ‘Boss’ yet. But as your pre-boss, I should tell you that answering the official motel phone line that way is off-putting. To guests, and, like, non-guests. All human people.”
“Is Gomery there?
“I know. I know.”
“At what unreasonable hour will you be ringing our night bell? I wanna make sure I’m rockin’ my sexy jammies.”
I peeked out my window. Montgomery Yves Overbove leaned over the motel’s front desk; a disassembled VCR sat in front of him. “Also? That old green phone of yours has a crackle.”
“Are you watching me right now?” Monty stared up at my third floor window.
“But your curtains are closed!”
I poked my hand through the curtain gap and waved.
“Terrific! A boss who can keep tabs on me even when I think she can’t. Future, come quicker! Hang on.” The popcorn box strode out of the motel office and down to Room 127. When his cousin answered his door, there was some discussion. Monty flung his arms a few times and Gomery crossed his, and both young men nodded, though the man in the glasses appeared more serious.
Then they both returned to the lobby, followed by Fossy, who stretched out on the teal vinyl couch, the very couch I’d slid around on, tugging at my tight vintage skirt, only a week ago.
Monty grabbed the receiver of the old rotary phone. “This lobby just got more magical. Meaning he’s here. As you can see, you spying spy.”
I could indeed see. Gomery leaned with his back against the front desk, gazing through the motel door in the direction of my family suite. He had on a blue t-shirt and jeans, an ensemble not dissimilar to mine. Off-hours meant no neckties and no ruffled gowns and no evening gloves and no snoods and no fuss.
Off-hours, I like you.
© Jeremy Swinborne | Dreamstime.com