Margie hated February 15th.
Bad enough she didn’t have her own valentine, but she had to clean up after the ones that did, and that was torture.
The sheets in 206 were covered in baby oil. Flower petals and torn lingerie clogged up the tub in 210. 211’s headboard was actually dented, for God’s sake.
Grumbling, she pushed into 212 and found another depressed soul. Alone, sitting on the bed, still in a tuxedo, he was staring at an unopened box of chocolates and looking handsome and vulnerable.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to me,” Margie whispered, and she closed the door.
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