At about fifteen after five I left my hotel room to wander around Taylor street and see what struck my fancy for dinner. I chose a Thai restaurant, broke my pattern and didn’t order a dish with wide rice noodles, jaunted up to the concierge lounge to check out the hours d’ouvers because this is the first time I could, noted an astonishing quantity of free alcohol just sitting there unsupervised, then at approximately 7:15 returned to my room. I immediately notice a green apple, sitting on a white Marriot napkin, placed in the laptop shaped gap of my clutter on the desk.
Is this actually my room? All my stuff is exactly where I left it, and my key card let me in so, check.
Am I sure all my stuff is here? Nearly all my really prized possessions come with me when I’m traveling. Yup, laptop and ipod are where I left them; wallet, camera and cell phone are on my person. Everything is precisely where I left it, up to the tube of mascara balancing precariously on the edge of the box full of girly junk I bring with me when I have to play at being an adult. Except that there’s an apple on my desk.
I hate apples.
I haven’t been near an apple since this morning when I hit up the continental breakfast for hash browns in dire need of salt and green grapes. I didn’t bring back anything from the continental breakfast.
The apple is sitting on a napkin. Anybody who has ever seen me eat knows that I even think to grab a napkin unless I wind up in a situation where one is required, usually around the time the barbecue sauce reaches my elbows. Even if I did space out and pick up an apple, and I hate apples, I definitely would not have picked up a napkin to go with it.
Housekeeping was finishing with my room when I got back from work, so it didn’t come from them because I was working at that desk for a while before leaving for dinner.
The presentations is very nice. It’s framed by a power cord and empty water bottles, my sunglasses accenting the open side opposite the light from the desk lamp. There is nothing written on the napkin. When I picked up the apple to examine it I expected to either discover a phone number, to be blown up by a bomb, or see a message along the lines of “The government’s on to you.” None of these things happened.
I could dust for prints, but there’d be no way of knowing which prints were from whoever put the apple there and which were from people picking and sorting apples. Besides, I don’t have access to a finger print database so I can’t really do anything with it.
This is so weird.
I’m staying at the same hotel where my phone mysteriously disappeared for a few hours and was returned to the front desk by persons unknown without anybody calling attention to it, after I’d caught a plane to Long Island. Nobody had placed any calls on it and the battery was fully charged when it came back to me. I’m assuming the hotel manager was the one who turned it off, a very thoughtful thing to do I think.
About 20% of me is extremely creeped out. Another 60% really needs to know what’s going on, because curiosity from a mystery like this could kill me. The other 20% which must be where my ego lives has decided I have a secret admirer and is thoroughly flattered.
Uhm, to any potential secret admirers, try strawberries or grapes – oranges if I’m looking like I could use a pick-me-up. Seriously, unless they’re baked or covered in caramel apples are just gross. Also, I’m highly susceptible to good conversation and jewelry. And books, though loaning me ones you like is probably smartest because I have to see you again to give them back and then we can talk about them. Oh, and while flowers are nice I actually prefer balloons. Most of all, don’t ask me out on anything that smells like a date because I’ll say no and classify you as creepy – sorry, I’m wired that way. (Asking me out on a “date” has happened without me noticing that was what was going on until after the event occurred. I’m not sure how that was done though.)
Maybe I’ve misjudged the percentage occupied by my ego.
Oh, and I’m definitely throwing the dead bolts when I go to bed.
Anaea Lay 