A Fine Line
Even though I expect it, the sound of a sharp knock on the door startles me. I fumble into my robe and pad towards the hotel door. I peer through the little spyhole to find a balding and morose looking individual waiting. I twist the lock, open the door and we look at each other – he in his overalls and me barefoot in my robe.
“In here,” I say and point him to the bathroom.
He nods and plods his way in. The bathroom, decorated in soft tones, is large and he stands in the middle of it, akimbo, waiting for some sort of instructions. I point to the jacuzzi.
“I want to use the jacuzzi,” I explain, “and the instructions say I’m not supposed to turn it on until the water level reaches the indicated line.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he agrees, “otherwise you could damage it.”
“But,” I continue, “there is no line in the jacuzzi and that’s why I called the reception desk.”
In truth, I did spend a few minutes leaning over the side of the oversized tub trying to see if I could catch some glimpse of this line. The neatly printed instructions by the side of the water taps were rather insistent that there should be a line and if I could not find it, then I must have somehow misplaced it. I ignored the snotty instructions and called the reception desk. The chap on the other end of the line chuckled as he assured me that someone would be over to help me. Now, with the morose mechanic in my bathroom, I wonder what’s going to happen.
He bends down and carefully inspects the tub, rubbing the side of it with his calloused fingers. He straightens up, turns to me and says, “There is a line in the tub.”
I look again and all I see is white.
“Where?” I ask.
“Ah, you can’t see it.”
“It’s faded away, but it’s there.”
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