Tuesday At Work

A fleshy, limp, stumbly woman paddles to the lobby.  Loose flannel shirts and baggy pants.  Stringy hair falls over melting face.
Asks for a room and a rate.  I reluctantly comply, hoping for sighs of disapproval in her sagging jowels.
She agrees and pulls out a dirty letter envelope of money.  Says that'll be cash.
Of course it is
She looks 60 but more like 40. Her expired I.D only confirms.
Two different people staring at me.
She mutters something about it being quite a day.  You're telling.
In town address, recognize the apartment complex.  Stereotypes confirmed.
I hand her old self back, where she is stuffed back in the old dirty envelope.
She requests that no none knows she is there, if anyone should call.
Of course, I reply.
She readjusts her layers of clothing, spreading the stale aura that surrounds her.
I hold my breath and get her signature.
Give her the keys and tell her where to go.
She stands, staring at me.  I say she's all set to go.
She limps back out to the Beard and Flannel lurking outside, waiting.
Through the monitors I watch them wonder away.
And I go back to my book.