Despite the distance that I've put between myself and... him, I still feel so nervous. I feel the sweat gathering on my back as I wait in line at the front desk to check in to the hotel. The gigantic fans do nothing to help me — in fact, they might be making it worse; they circulate the hot, humid air, creating the same impact of a furnace. Briefly, my eyes skim my surroundings, and everyone else appears to be fine. They're laughing and joking, and the children are playing freely with one another. I even see one gentleman wearing a thick, white sweater.

So it's just me, then.

The oven-like heat has a special way of making someone feel as if time is moving more slowly, painfully so. Every tick of the watch on my wrist feels like a minute, and every minute feels like an hour. When I finally reach the front of the line, I am sweaty and very miserable.

"Good afternoon, ma'am! Welcome to The—"

"Just give me a room, please," I grunt in irritation. She looks taken aback by my tone, and I feel a twinge of guilt for the way that I've treated her. It's really not her fault. I try to smile at her, but even to me, it feels fake as hell, so I give up.

"Um, what kind of room would you like?" she asks as politely as she can with a broad smile, tugging at her tie, her red lipstick and nail polish a contrast to her mocha skin.

"Something far away from everyone else," I tell her honestly. Even I can hear the fatigue in my own voice. "I want to be alone." I draw out the last word, stressing it for emphasis.

For a second, she looks at me as if I'm an idiot. And then, her smile is back. The strange thing is that her smile looks so real. I wonder if she practices that shit in the mirror.

"The rooms in this hotel are placed in blocks, miss. We don't have no villas."

No villas, huh? How... inconvenient. The entire drive here, I'd been daydreaming about spending time alone with myself, no distractions, no noise, nothing. I'd been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I almost crashed. Twice. And now, this woman is telling me that I can't do that.

I tap my fingers against the granite countertop, allowing myself to drift into thought, disregarding the line of people waiting behind me. Now I have to figure out whether or not I want to stay here. On one hand, I had no intention of interacting with anyone or dealing with the outside world. On the other hand, it was a two hour drive, and I only came here because I was told that it had villas. My idiot cousin made a big deal  about how he came here and got butler service in his own private room. I guess he doesn't even know which hotel he went to. Aside from that, I'm tired, and covered in sweat. I can't drive around all day. So it is with a heavy heart that I nod my head in resignation.

"Okay," she says with a deep exhale, probably eager to be rid of me. I can't blame her. "We have a suite for $90 US, or $10,000 Jamaican per night. The Jamaican price is discounted."

Three nights, and Jamaican." My sweat now dripping onto the floor. 

"Cash or card?"

"Card." My reply is soft as I fumble in my bag for my purse, everything seeming to slip out of my sweaty hands. When I finally managed to get my credit card out, a sigh of relief passes my lips. After a few more minutes, or hours, if you're going by my time, I'm done. I run off to go hide in my room, away from the other guests, away from the world... away from him.

***

I'm beginning to regret leaving my family behind. 

Apparently, the hotel staff can't extend the same courtesy. See, I clearly recall placing the "Do not Disturb" sign on the handle of my door, but there is someone knocking, right now, shouting "Room Service!" As I sit on the green, two seater couch facing the door in nothing but a skimpy black thong, I have absoolutely no intention of answering this person. And I know what's coming.

"Uh, miss," he says, looking at the ground, "I was knocking on tha door," he says in a faux American accent that they always use at the resorts. This only makes me grin. "A thought that no one was in 'ere."

"Well, obviously, I am here," I announce, spreading my arms. Upon hearing my accent, he relaxes a little. They're always more comfortable around other Jamaicans.

"Well, mi really sorry miss," he states, now speaking more naturally, the words rolling off of his tongue. "As mi said, mi neva know—" 

"I put up a "Do not Disturb" sign outside," I point out with a raised brow. 

This time, it's his turn to raise his brow at me; his reaction surprises me. I didn't quite expect that to come from some who is obviously in the wrong — for him to hang his head in shame? Maybe. For him to go outside and check if it's there? Possibly. But not for him to give me the impossibly cocky look that he is giving me right now.

"Miss," he begins, putting emphasis on the 's', "there is no sign on yuh door."

My eyebrows mash together, partly in confusion, and also in the concentration that it is taking for me to not curse out this asshole. There are many things that I want to say to him now, none of them good. Like how his uniform makes him look like an oversized penguin; how his head is oddly shaped like a penis, and that it's very distracting; how—

"Sir," I begin, as politely as I can, "I clearly recall placing the sign on the handle of my door." To believe that I am even having this conversation is utterly absurd. When he continues to smile cynically at me like an idiot, I have to resist the urge to spit on him. A million and one thoughts race through my mind as I consider the ways in which I could express my feelings to this man. None of these thoughts are mature, however, and I remind myself that I am mature, that I am a grown ass woman — not a child.

"Okay, sir," I spit my words at him, with an overly-sweet, sarcastic smile. "Why don't I go outside and get the damn thing? And then I can show you that I put it there." Still in nothing but my thong, I rise to my feet, and march towards the door.

"Um, miss, that really won't be necessary—"

I ignore him. He's done nothing but piss me off so far, and I'll be damned if I let him dictate what I do now.

When I arrive outside, in the hallway, I realise why he was reluctant to have me out here. There are people out here — a lot of them. Most of them are ignoring me, but this one old lady is staring without shame, her mouth so wide that it looks like a fly trap. As for The housekeeper, he is now beside me, and his entire face screams secondhand embarrassment. I don't care about that, though. I don't care about any of that, because firstly, I'm not ashamed of my breasts. Secondly, and more importantly... the sign is gone. 

Now, on a good day, this wouldn't be a big deal to me. It wouldn't be a big deal to anyone — it really is an insignificant detail that can be overlooked in the grand scheme of life, when you think of it. But today... today, everything just seems to be setting me off, and this is the perfect trigger to have me exploding like a ripe calabash falling onto the ground.

"Who. The fuck. Took up my sign?" I ask to no one in particular. My voice is unnaturally calm — chillingly so. Anyone who hears it will probably think that I'm capable of murder. As a matter of fact, from the way that his body stiffens in fright, I know that he hears it. He himself is probably thinking something along those lines.

"Uh, miss, maybe one of the other guests stole it," he says with a gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing viciously. I can see nervous sweat forming on his brow, all earlier signs of cockiness disappearing completely.

Good.

"We all get them, don't we?" I ask him coldly. "So what reason would they have?"

"When they get drunk and lose their owns, they steal from each other," he mumbles, looking down at his fingers like a child. Were I in a better mood, I might feel slightly guilty for emasculating him, but I am too far gone right now. 

"Well, please, get me a new one," I request with a sweet smile that has him running down the hallway away from me. It's funny how just your attitude and nothing else can determine whether or not someone fears you or not, and how much they fear you, too. I am definitely smaller than this man, about half a foot shorter than him, and more than likely physically weaker than him — but there he goes, scampering down the hall away from my tiny ass. Still, like the receptionist, he didn't deserve my ire. It's not his fault that I'm antsy today. This time, I will be more mature than before. This time I will apologise.

As my anger fades into shame, I drag my feet back into my room, and sit on the couch — leaving the door open behind me. I wait patiently, thinking of all the things that I could say, and all the ways that I could say it to make it right.

I'm sorry for being a bitch.

You're not that much of an ass.

You didn't deserve to be manhandled.

None of them feel... right. In what feels like too little time, the man is back, walking into my room. He seems to have regained some of his composure, but his eyes still don't meet mine.

"Uh..." 

Wow. Such a brilliant way to begin a profound apology.