The girl checked into the hotel with her mother. They had difficulty finding it, as the hotel was poorly marked and located on a side street. They were looking for it during the mid-afternoon, when everyone was taking siesta. All the streets looked residential and like dead ends.
The girl was charmed when they did find it, because it was so far out of the way and the lobby was full of dark marble and very understated. The mother was too tired to notice anything and didn’t even bother speaking Italian to the thin blonde girl behind the reception desk.
The receptionist pretended to be happy to speak English, but the girl could tell she was distracted. A man with long blonde hair and a tight white t-shirt stood leaned in a doorway behind the receptionist with his arms folded, smiling unconvincingly. The receptionist watched the mother's hand as she penned her signature slowly and carefully on the guest card. The mother’s hands were pale, marked with swollen blue veins and the rings on her fingers were a little loose.
Marco will take your bags up, the receptionist said, holding up a limp hand towards a man who appeared behind the mother and daughter in the corner. The girl hadn’t noticed him when they walked in, but she thought that he must have been there the whole time. He wore a red jacket and stood with his shoulders hunched, as if owning up to the fact that he had a small body and thinning hair. He handled the bags nimbly, but it took him three trips to complete the work. He stood next to the pile of bags and blushed when the mother counted out a few thousand lire and handed it to him.
He liked you, the mother told her daughter, and retired to the bathroom with her cosmetic bag in hand and dressing gown over her arm.
