“Clean up the champagne, honey. This is future royalty.” He laughed, unaware that the only royalty in the room was the woman holding the mop, and she was about to sign his execution order.
But before the execution, there was the laundry room.
The air in the back room of the Sunset Inn was thick with the smell of industrial bleach and mildew. It was a smell that clung to your skin, a chemical reminder of your station in life. I stood there, folding a rough, gray towel, my hands red and raw from the harsh detergent.
“You bought organic milk again?”
Mark’s voice cut through the hum of the dryer. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a suit that was two sizes too big and a tie that screamed discount bin. He looked at the receipt in his hand as if it were a declaration of war.
“Mark, it was on sale,” I said, keeping my voice level. “And the regular milk was expired.”
“Do you think money grows on trees, Elena?” he sneered, crumpling the receipt and tossing it onto the stained breakroom table. “You need a reality check. You think because I’m the manager, you can live like a queen?”
He walked over to the pile of dirty linens on the floor—sheets stained with things I tried not to think about.
“The maid called in sick,” he announced, kicking the pile toward me. “You’re covering her shift. Maybe scrubbing toilets will teach you the value of a dollar.”
I looked at the laundry basket. I looked at him.
