Transylvania Towers
Leah looked up into my face and I didn’t see the woman that argued over dirty socks and TV-programming—I saw the face that had showed up at my dorm room to ask for help proofreading her manuscripts, that kissed me for the first time when I had said yes. I kissed her hair, her forehead, her ears. She smiled at me and we fell asleep on top of the blankets holding each other.
The next morning came in the form of a knock on the door and a folded letter stuffed under the door—there were no phones. Leah smoothed the wrinkles in her shirt and combed fingers through her hair. She laughed when she saw the back of my head as I stumbled over to the note. Cowlick, she giggled, and matted it down with some spit. The note informed us that breakfast was being served in the Banquet hall for all of the guests.
“Wanna take a shower instead?” She nibbled my ear. I reminded her about the money and she flicked me with a hand towel.
“Tonight, then.” She spread her arms out theatrically. “That is, if one could distinguish morning from night in this wasteland.” It was my turn to flick her with the hand towel.
We joined the other guests in the banquet hall half an hour later. Breakfast was nearly over. The bones of a breakfast ham and a ravished fruit platter sat in the center of the mahogany table. There were seven people seated—the Williams were the only familiar faces. Three college-age girls wearing Omicron Omega shirts chatted with each other over small plates of fruit. A man in a wrinkled polo tried to make small talk with the girl sitting closest to him, but she was ignoring him. Another sat at the head of the table. His business suit and spurred boots seemed out of place in the baroque hall. He made a gesture of welcome to us. We seated ourselves near the Williams. Leah picked at a few pieces of fruit with her fork. I grabbed some ham and bread and wolfed down three sandwiches.
Before I could start on a fourth, the man at the end of the table wrapped his knuckles on the mahogany.
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