Quality Express hotel doesn’t exist anywhere (that I know of) except in my mind.

It Ain’t Me, Babe

It’s Friday night at the Quality Express. The lights in the bar are low. Candles flicker on tables. It’s more ambiance than you’d expect for a hotel that caters to business travelers.

I’m wearing a floor length evening gown in plum made by my seamstress (designer wannabe) best friend. The straps are encased in rhinestones that glitter in the soft stage light. I sing love songs, or at least I try.

The fact is that lonely travelers sometimes drink more than they should and their inner Adele or Streisand or Freddie Mercury rises to the surface. They think nothing of bounding, okay, stumbling to the stage as if it’s karaoke night. And I let them, because, let’s face it, I like to be entertained too, just in a different way.

At 10 pm on alternate nights, I sing “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” because basically I’m a sadist. Within minutes, there will be blubbering, or worse. Tonight, it’s worse.

A pretty blonde sashays to the stage. Tears glitter in her eyes. From her movements I’m willing to bet she’s not drunk.

“You tried,” she says.

I narrow my eyes at her but continue singing.

“You tried to steal my man.”

Huh. Should I bring out some Tammy Wynette or Loretta Lynn? A country cheating song?

A chubby brunette rushes forward. “That’s not her. It’s the Thursday night singer.”

I nod. “Yeah, that Thursday night singer’s bad news!”

Yep. Two weeks ago, I changed my schedule and my hair color. I was the Thursday night singer. I wonder which man was hers. Meh, doesn’t matter. I never steal for keeps. Men are like potato chips: you can’t have just one.

end

Sascha Darlington 4/19/2018

A mea culpa offered for going about a 100 words over. 🙁 (But hopefully it was worth it?)