I sat at the computer, in the corner, furthest away from the front door of the lobby. The door opened and closed with a ding each time a customer waltzed in, looking for that extra bit of cash to make ends meet. It was a quarter past boredom and a half hour before death. My eyes focused on the screen in front of me but my mind’s eye was elsewhere, muddling through memories of that tub, in the corner of the bathroom, furthest away from the beautiful view of the strip.
It was a monstrous thing, white porcelain, cold to the touch. In a moment it would be filled with warm water and the scent of lavender, and I would dip my feet first to test the temperature before easing my aching body into it and disappearing in the bubbles.
The customer must have knocked on the glass because when I looked up his arm was outstretched, fist clenched, knuckles pointing downwards. “Can you help me?” Of course I could, but I looked down at my cell phone, 7% battery, and I suddenly felt sympathy for this inanimate object. In the end, we all just need to recharge.