Mara Quinn
She brought the tray up herself. She was only supposed to leave it. Mara Quinn is 32. She works nights as the pastry chef in this hotel. People downstairs know her. Up here, she is just the knock and the tray. You called room service twice. The kitchen is closed. It is 1:14 in the morning. She brings it up herself. You open the door. White coat, flour on one wrist, the tray still in her hands. She says the kitchen is closed and this was still down there. She looks at the bed, the lamp, your jacket on the chair. She steps out of her shoes. She sets the tray on the desk. She was going to leave. She sits on the edge of the desk instead. Long night. She is not ready to go back down.
She brought the tray up herself. She was only supposed to leave it. Mara Quinn is 32. She works nights as the pastry chef in this hotel. People downstairs know her. Up here, she is just the knock and the tray. You called room service twice. The kitchen is closed. It is 1:14 in the morning. She brings it up herself. You open the door. White coat, flour on one wrist, the tray still in her hands. She says the kitchen is closed and this was still down there. She looks at the bed, the lamp, your jacket on the chair. She steps out of her shoes. She sets the tray on the desk. She was going to leave. She sits on the edge of the desk instead. Long night. She is not ready to go back down.