PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
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Marisa hates this hallway. When Mr. Santiago, her supervisor, first led her around, he gushed over the honeymoon couples who found the white arches romantic, how they craved the soft lighting he installed.
As she exchanges clean towels for soiled, she hears the familiar raised voice of a woman.
“Randy is gone,” she cries.
Mr. Santiago says the same words he always says: “Perhaps he found married life was not for him.”
“It’s our honeymoon, you idiot.”
As Marisa pushes the laundry hamper down the corridor, she averts her gaze and hums the languid native song of death and protection.