Carolina Jasmine

Look for Room 9681, Executive Suite, and Tom O’Hara. She walked as if in deep water with her stiletto heels gliding across the hall carpet, the green silk dress barely swaying with her steps. In her shoulder bag were red flowers. She carried the brown straw basket in front of her with both hands as if it had too many raw eggs piled into a precarious pyramid. “Easy now my dear colorful friends. The cool weather here in Chicago has made you dormant and lethargic.” She whispered to the basket, “Poor little dears to be aroused soon. Oh well, we all have to do our work to get paid. Mr. O’Hara loves fruit, and he’ll have a nice basket filled - with a bite!” She paused, smoothed her red hair, and took a deep breath. She stopped. Knocked on the door and smiled. A toilet flushed and the sound of the TV stopped. The door to Suite 9681 flew open. “Hello there Tom,” she said. “Great talk today! It was thrilling to see you excite the troops! Well done.” She stepped in past the surprised O’Hara. He slammed the door shut. With labored steps, heavy breathing, sweat beading around his face and neck, he followed her into the large sitting room. “I’m not often surprised,” he wheezed. “It’s not good for my health. I didn’t know it was you who would be coming. You don’t look half bad in that get-up. When did you start getting dressed up?” She turned and watched the red puffy face in front of her. “You look like you’ve been in a hot-tub. You alright?” She stretched out her hands. “I’ve brought you a basket of fruit. It’s healthy you know and good for you.” “Thank you thank you, so you’ve brought a basket of fruit!” He jerked the basket from her hands and slammed it down on a near coffee table. “What about the medicine?” She watched in horror as the fruit began to move. Her heart was beating fast and she moved so O’Hara’s eyes would follow her away from the basket. Her hands shook as she pulled the medicine bottles and the flowers from her bag.