This story was inspired by the title of the book,
Spousonomics: Using Economics to Master Love, Marriage, and Dirty Dishes.
I haven't read the book yet, so I can't comment on any similarities between the two works.
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Michael shifted beneath his shoulder bag as he checked his watch. He'd done so at least a dozen times during the five minutes he'd been in line. Seeing the time did little to help his mood; he had to be back in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and still had to check in and change.
The hotel's heat was on despite the unseasonably warm temperatures, and he was sweating beneath the layers he'd donned that morning. Worse than his discomfort, however, was the fact that he might be late meeting his sister for dinner.
As much the thought stung—and it did; he
hated
being late—he had to admit that a small part of him was enjoying his time in line.
A tall, red-haired woman had been at the desk the entire time he'd been in the lobby. She and the front desk clerk were arguing about... something. Michael couldn't make out a single word of their conversation above the hum of the lobby's Muzak, but he was enjoying the redhead's performance.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in her body language told him she was orchestrating the conversation. The clerk may have thought he was the woman's equal, but Michael suspected that, like a chess master, the woman knew exactly what she was doing. She was probably dozens of steps ahead of the poor man, and was now backing him into a corner of his own making.
Just as the realization crossed Michael's mind, the clerk faltered and wrinkled his brow. The woman's spine stiffened; it was a subtle shift in her stance, but in that instant she seemed even taller than she had just moments before.
The prospect of seeing her triumph sent a strange sort of thrill down Michael's body.
You've got him,
he thought.
You've been playing rope-a-dope with him this whole time—I knew it!—and now you've got him. Pounce before he has a chance to deflect or regroup. Come on, woman, go in for the verbal kill!
A silly grin spread across Michael's face as the woman leaned across the desk to say a few quiet words. The clerk blanched and picked up the phone. Moments later, the woman left with a second man, though not before she gave the clerk a genuine smile and a profuse thank-you.
Michael stared after her retreating back. He shook his head a few times as he approached the desk. Why, after realizing he might be late, had he relished the idea of watching the woman argue? Why had he felt a strange sense of disappointment when the argument ended? Given the time, he should've been thrilled the two had reached a resolution.
"What the heck was that about?" Michael forced a laugh as he addressed the clerk behind the desk.
"We're having a conference here this week. Let's see... here it is." The clerk pulled out a large piece of card paper. "'The Future of Alternative Energy, with this year's special topic, How to Make the Future Happen Now.'"
The clerk rolled his eyes at Michael before continuing. "Of course they chose the week of Earth Day for the conference. As you might expect, it's attracted some crazies. I argued with that woman for close to ten minutes about why we can't allow her hippie friends to run extension cords through our garage to charge their cars. In the end, I passed her off to our Head of Maintenance and Facilities, just like she'd wanted the entire time. I was trying to spare the poor man, but well, let him deal with her, you know? I mean...."
The clerk's eyes bulged. "I mean, we welcome all guests at the hotel, and are thrilled to play host to such a respected conference." The clerk paused again, collecting himself before plastering on a fake smile. "Welcome to the historic Donatello Hotel in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. Are you checking in today, sir? Yes? And did you have a pleasant trip?"
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Michael wrinkled his nose at the mug of stale, weak coffee in his hands. The hotel served terrible coffee, but he was desperate; like any addict, he needed his morning fix.
"Hello? Excuse me, Mr. Andrews?"
Michael turned to see the redhead. The long-legged, master-arguer, maybe-crazy redhead.
He couldn't remember what she'd worn the day before—jeans and a t-shirt, perhaps?—but today she was dressed in a fitted blouse, a short bottle-green jacket, pinstripe charcoal dress pants, and a pair of black, patent leather platform pumps. Her clothing hinted at curves he hadn't seen the day before, but the biggest change was her hair. It had been pulled into a loose ponytail yesterday, but it was down now, and styled into a sleek cut that ended just above her shoulders.
He couldn't help but stare. Her hair wasn't one of those tamer or quasi-red shades, like auburn or strawberry-blond. No, this woman's hair was a true, fiery orange-red. It shimmered under the room's bright lights, yet still looked soft. He had to tamp down a sudden urge to reach his hand out and touch it.
"Yes?" He glanced at the lanyard that hung around her neck. "Ah, Ms. Clemmons, is it?"
"Call me Goldie." As she smiled, he noticed that her face had a considerable amount of large, brown freckles. Her narrow nose was slightly crooked, and sat beneath a pair of plain gray eyes. She was unusual looking, but not unattractive.
She must have sensed something off in his expression, for her smile widened as she continued to speak. "Yes, I realize it's an unusual name. To save you the effort of having to work some awkward questions into the conversation, no, my parents weren't big Goldie Hawn fans. I grew up on a commune of sorts in Vermont, and since my hippie parents assumed I'd be blond like all of my older sisters they went ahead and named me Goldenrod." She tugged on a piece of her hair. "I fooled them, though," she said before extending her hand.
