Guest 1

She sits, typing away furiously, at her laptop, the curtains swaying gently on the wind through the window which is ajar. A cigarette is firmly clamped between her lips. Her legs are akimbo, her shoulders slightly haunched. She takes care of her nails as is evidenced from the impeccable red polish. Her smooth skin belies her age. She is an assisted 35 although she would be even happier if you told her she was younger. You might call her a beauty.

She is travelling through. No husband, no children maybe. Earlier this evening she left, the little black dress hugging her curves tightly, visibly on the prowl. She returned alone although she would have liked to have had company.

I wonder if she has feelings. What is she typing? Her acknowledgement is curt and to the point. She obviously wants to be left alone.

Tomorrow evening I will bring a bottle of red wine and a single glass to her room once again. I will be met with the same tableau. Or will I?