#72

The hotel bar in the daytime had many empty seats. She sat and asked for an espresso. The bartender asked where she was from, and she forgot to lie. She could have said anywhere. She had practiced earlier, now that she belonged to no one, saying she was from Spain, Toronto, the Galapagos, Uzbekistan, Oklahoma. But she told the truth.

“Oh,” the bartender said, “close by. Staycation?”

She could have lied again. She was an escort, a journalist reviewing hotels, meeting a friend. But she told the truth again.

“Wow,” the bartender said, “so this is like the beginning of your movie.”

While she sipped the bitter warm cup, she listened to two young, beautifully made up women talk about some guys they met from London the night before. They asked for their thin glasses to be refilled with Prosecco. She liked the sound of the trinkets on their arms as they clinked against the marble top of the bar. “They were not really cute,” one said. The other nodded. “But they were so nice and polite and paid for like, everything.”

They could have lied, she thought. But maybe no one does at a hotel bar in the daytime.