TWENTY-SEVEN Marcel knocks at exactly five to seven. “What?” I call through the door without opening it. “Are you ready to go?” I am, but I definitely didn’t think he would be. I peer through the peephole. He looks showered, dressed, refreshed. Disgusting. I open the door a crack without removing the chain. “Did you just wake up?” he asks, ignoring the chain and my glare. “No.” “So let’s go.” “Give me a sec.” I close the door, pick up my bag and mandolin, and give myself a glance in the mirror. I look haggard and cranky, like I’ve spent half the night being screamed at by music videos. One more day. The lobby smells like burned waffle and boiled eggs. Marcel checks out, while I scan the continental breakfast offerings. The muffins look okay, if oddly shiny, so I put one in my bag along with a banana and a carton of chocolate milk. “Grab me something, will you?” Marcel calls from the front desk. “I’m going to go get the car.” I turn back to the breakfast spread, stewing over the fact that whatever anger he had for me last night is gone, and that all this food looks like it’s been waxed and polished.
