Only You by K.T. Quinn

4

Molly

The Day We Traded

After breakfast, I called the airline to check on flights. I don’t know what I expected, but everything was grounded until further notice. The man on the line was friendly and helpful, but he didn’t know when that would change.

I brought a book with me for the flight, so I sat on the balcony in the sunshine while reading. I was able to enjoy that for a while, until dark clouds drifted across the sky in the afternoon along with a chilly wind that brought goosebumps to my skin, forcing me back inside.

At three, there was a noise outside in the hall. A shadow passed across the door, and then a note slid underneath into my room. I jumped out of bed and grabbed it. The words were hand-written on a piece of Residencia Al Gladiatore stationary:

Due to insufficient staffing, all hotel amenities are halted until further notice. Emergency supplies will be provided every afternoon.

Flabbergasted by what I was reading, I threw open the door. The concierge was bending down to slide another note under the door next to mine.

“What does this mean?” I asked, waving the note.

He stood up stiffly and covered his mouth with a handkerchief. “I am quite sorry, but we do not have the staff available to provide even the most basic of services. The maids to clean the rooms, the cooks to run the restaurant… Everyone is obeying the stay-at-home order.”

“Then what?” I demanded. “We’re being abandoned here?”

“A box of supplies will be delivered to you every afternoon.” He pointed to a small cardboard box on the ground next to my door. Another was sitting in front of my neighbor’s door.

I picked up my box and opened the lid. Inside was half a sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a bag of potato chips, a biscotti cookie, a single-serving bottle of wine, and a plastic bottle of sparkling water. It looked like the kind of package you bought on an airplane for twenty dollars.

“This is it?” I asked. “I don’t mean to sound demanding but… This is all I get to eat every day?”

The concierge looked around helplessly. His eyes settled on the vending machine next to the elevator. He rushed over to it, then used the keys on his belt to unlock the front panel. He gestured at the open machine.

“Please help yourself to anything in here as well.” He turned to leave.

“Isn’t there anywhere we can go?” I asked. “A bigger hotel that is staffed properly? Somewhere?”

The concierge hurried into the elevator. “I am sorry, but this is all we can do for you. Please remain inside your room as much as possible! It is for your safety.”

I groaned as I carried my box of supplies into the hotel room. There was a look in the concierge’s eyes: genuine fear. The fact that he was afraid scared me more than anything else I had seen.

In the face of a global pandemic, my hierarchy of needs narrowed quickly. Forget the relaxing vacation with my friends, and forget eating delicious food at expensive restaurants. I had shelter. I had fresh water. I had food, as pitiful as it was. As long as they kept bringing these boxes, I would be okay. Even without them, I could live on the junk food in the vending machine for days. Maybe weeks.

Not a pleasant thought, but it was something.

“And most importantly, I have plenty of wine!” I said out loud, just to hear someone’s voice.

I ate my meal even though it wasn’t time for dinner yet. The sandwich was comprised of a thin slice of turkey and an even thinner slice of cheese. The bread was dry and tasteless, and the chips were stale.

Delicious smells drifted from next door. What were they making today? The same classical Italian music was playing, too. It felt romantic. It was probably a couple on their honeymoon.

I hope I don’t have to hear them having sex.

The smell of pasta filled my room, making a mockery of the crappy lunch I’d had. My mouth watered and my stomach growled angrily.

To get away from the smell, I tied a T-shirt around my face as a mask and walked out to the vending machine. It had a good variety of chips and candy, but I was hungry for a meal.

With nothing else to do, I kept walking around. The gym was on our floor. Three treadmills and a rack of dumbbells. Taped to the door was a sign that said “CLOSED” in five different languages.

I didn’t see any sign of life anywhere else on our floor. In fact, when I returned to my room I noticed there was a yellow sticky-note taped to the door with “OSPITE” written on it. According to Google, that means guest in Italian. They were probably marking the rooms that were occupied, so the boxes of food could be delivered. My room and the room next to mine were the only ones with sticky-notes on our floor.

Content that I had explored my surroundings, I went back into my room and celebrated by opening another bottle of wine.

I had experienced boredom before, but never like this. I was in Rome, damnit! Staying inside was torture. It felt like driving all the way to Disney World and then being told to stay in the car.

After two glasses of wine, my mind went to a dark place and I started playing the “I should have” game.

I should have flown out on the same flight as my friends, rather than a day early. Then I wouldn’t be alone.

I should have stayed at a bigger resort hotel, rather than one so close to the Colosseum. Then I would have plenty of amenities.

I should have come years ago, with my parents.

After watching two hours of Seinfeld episodes dubbed in Italian, I finally worked up the courage to open the door connecting me to my neighbor’s room. I was greeted with another door that only they could open from their end. There was about a foot of space in between.

I wanted to say hello to the neighbors. To experience all of this with someone else, rather than alone. And most of all I wanted to see if they would share their food.

I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated. The warnings I had seen on TV flashed in my head: stay at least six feet away from other people. Being in an enclosed space with other people was dangerous. They could spread the virus to me.

I went to the desk and scribbled a note on a piece of paper:

It’s a ghost town on our floor. Have you seen any other guests up here?

I slid it under the door and waited. A few moments later, the music paused. I heard footsteps. Minutes passed, and then a reply note came back.

Only you.

Great. Thanks for the long, friendly reply, neighbor.

I almost left it at that, but the rumbling in my stomach was getting worse, and I didn’t want to fill it with vending machine food. So I wrote another note.

I’ll level with you. I’m starving, and the smell of food coming from your place is torture. Do you have a hot plate or something over there?

The reply came back quicker than before.

My room has a kitchenette. I bought supplies at the market right before the lockdown. You want some pasta? I have enough to share.

“Oh thank God,” I whispered, before sending my reply.

Yes please! I’ll trade you a bottle of wine!

After sending the note, I placed a bottle of wine in the partition space and closed the door. A few minutes later I heard the other door open. A note slipped underneath the door and I heard the door close again.

Come and get it.

Waiting for me inside the partition was a white bowl filled with pasta. I intended to send a thank-you note immediately, but the smell and sight of the pasta overwhelmed my senses, and I immediately sat on the carpet in front of the door and chowed down like a pig. The pasta was angel hair, with a cream sauce and bits of white chicken. Salty, peppery, savory, and creamy.

It tasted better than any pasta I’d ever had in my life, though I knew it was probably because I was hungry.

I read the notes while I ate. It looked like a man’s handwriting, and based on the phrasing he was alone.

I wonder what my lockdown-neighbor looks like.

I sent him a thank-you note. His response came back within seconds.

Food for wine? I think I won this trade.

Happy and full, I suddenly didn’t feel so alone anymore.