A segment of a story I've been working on called "Derrick."
"If I knew any better, I would have came sooner," said Sasha.
The two young girls approached the hotel they were to stay at. Only a red door with a number at the top told them it was the right place. No indication of hotel Chateau, no indication of customer service, no doormen to approach them, and invite them into their new humble abode. The winding staircase was met by a Direction, as the super/landlady was called in France, listed only by the name above her door.
And The Direction was no happier then a thirteen year old on homework day. Her hair disheveled, and combed to one side, dish water blond, with a look of apprehension that made us reconsider our reservation.
"You remember me?" spoke Kamila first. Speaking in English for my benefit.