“That is what makes it worse.”
Margaret slept poorly.
Not because the room was uncomfortable.
The mattress was excellent.
The sheets were exactly what the company purchased.
The thermostat worked.
Housekeeping had done its job.
The problem was the knowledge underneath everything.
She thought about the guest surveys.
The nurse.
The father with children.
The elderly couple.
People who had no ability to reveal ownership after being insulted.
People who simply left believing the Aurelia represented the Whitfield standard.
At 6:30 the next morning, Margaret rose.
She deliberately wore the same coat.
Still slightly wrinkled.
She did not style her hair beyond brushing it.
At 7:15, she entered the breakfast room.
The restaurant had twenty-three tables.
Only seven were occupied.
Margaret sat near a window.
A server approached.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Food?”
“Could I have a full English breakfast?”
The server gave her a distracted look.
“This isn't England.”
Margaret smiled.
“It is on the menu.”
He looked.
“Oh.”
She pointed.
“Eggs, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast. That one.”
“Fine.”
“Tea as well, please.”
He walked away.
Forty minutes passed.