Robert barely reacted.
“She must have me confused with someone else.”
The receptionist checked her computer.
“No, I’m quite sure. Same name.”
Then she frowned.
“You usually request the same room.”
“Usually?”
Robert stepped toward the desk.
“We’d just like to check in.”
His voice had turned impatient.
She nodded. “Of course.”
I waited until we reached our room.
As soon as the door closed, I turned to him.
“You’ve been here recently?”
Robert set his suitcase on the luggage rack. “No.”
“She recognized you.”
“She’s mistaken.”
“She said you usually request the same room.”
He unzipped his suitcase.
“People make mistakes.”
“Are you sure?”
He looked at me. “We came here 40 years ago. That’s it.”
I wanted to believe him.
After 40 years of marriage, surely there should be some trust.
At least that’s what I told myself.
That evening, we ate at the hotel restaurant. Robert behaved normally, ordering wine and complaining that the menu had changed.
He reminded me about the food we’d eaten on our honeymoon, and I laughed at his stories.
But I couldn’t forget the receptionist’s expression.
While Robert was in the restroom, I asked our server, “How long has the woman at the front desk worked here?”
