Impossible Impropriety

Light streamed into the hotel lobby. My brown leather bags (accented with the most exquisite tiny checker patter—they made smile every time I looked at them) were glowing and lively. The flower vase refracted a beautiful rainbow that gently colored the white marble of the desk it sat on. The smell of coffee and toast wafted in from the other room, and I could hear the murmur of morning conversation and the tinkle of silver cutlery. Sadly, nobody was behind the desk. It was unusual for the lobby to be so empty, especially on a weekend.

I clutched at my stomach. In stark contrast to the perfect surroundings, I felt as though I was filled with everything that was most horrible in the world. I had been in agony ever since I ate the pâté on the plane. Nobody else had had an issue (I asked) so I began to wonder if it was the food or if I had simply come down with a bug.

There still wasn’t anyone at the desk. I wanted to shout, but it just felt so out of place. The pain was confusing me, but I wouldn’t let a slight physical discomfort erode my manners so easily. I had been through worse before and made it just fine without putting anyone out on my account. It would have been different if I was traveling with someone else and they weren’t feeling well, but for myself there could be no request for special treatment. I would wait my turn like any other guest. I was certain that whatever was keeping the receptionist was well-worth their trouble.

I experienced a shuddering wave of nausea and fever. I fell forward, and could barely get my hand out in front of me to fend off the corner of the desk as I collapsed. Sweat beaded across my whole body, and I passed into darkness. I fought to open my eyes. It was still bright out, but I felt a strong sensation of falling into a tunnel or mine shaft. I was still lying on the floor, but everything was shutting down. There was a final sharp pain that radiated from my stomach into my spine, and then I felt nothing at all.