Noon light flooded the dry cleanerโfluorescent bright, conveyor clacking, plastic-wrapped shirts sliding by like a slow parade. I gave my ticket, and the clerk reached for a navy suit I knew too well.
โWe found these in the pockets,โ she said, offering a small zip bag. Inside: a hotel keycard and a lunch receipt. Two entrรฉes. Midweek. โWould you like us to throw it away?โ
I tried to smile. โNo, Iโve got it.โ The keycard was from a place across townโthe one with the glass elevator you can see from the freeway. The receipt time stamp: 12:24 p.m. The signature wasnโt his usual scrawl; it was careful, almost neat.
โBusy day?โ the clerk asked, making conversation. I nodded, throat dry, eyes drifting to a tiny smear of lipstick on the inside of the jacket collar that somehow made it through the wash. I told myself it could be mine. It wasnโt my shade.
Outside, the sun was merciless, reflections glaring off windshields. I slid into the car and held the keycard up to the light. On the back, a number was written in penโroom, probablyโand the last name the hotel had on file. Not ours.
My phone buzzed. A calendar notification popped up: โLunch with HR โ 12:30.โ That was the story heโd given me that day. I stared at the keycard, then at the address on the receipt.
The hotel was eight minutes away. Watch: [in comment] – Made with AI