You Can Play It It's Fine It Doesn't Matter Anymore Let The Song Play Day!

You ask her if she wants a water, she says she's good. You ask her if she's been in the city long, she says too long. She asks you if you've been driving long, you tell her how long. The Sirius launches into a new song.

"What do you think of this rain?" you ask.

She's silent, focused.

"Might not ever stop," you say. "Busier for me though."

After another 20 seconds she says, "Fuck."

You ask if there's something wrong and she says it's the song. You ask if she hates the song she says it's not that. She says she hasn't heard it in over three years.

"People think it's a love song," you say. "But I read it was actually about Bowie."

Her face is pained.

"Takin' you back, huh?" you say.

She says no, in fact no it's not at all. She says it was the song he played on the jukebox the night they first kissed. She says it's the song they'd put on at least once during the early-going Saturdays they'd spend all day in bed. She says it's the song she played on repeat in the months after he was gone until she swore to never ever play it again.

"I'll turn it off," you say.

She says no, don't bother.

"I pride myself on my star rating," you say. "If the song is upsetting you I'll--"

"It's not upsetting me," she says. "It's not doing anything to me."

"Are you sure?"

"Quit making me say it out loud!" she screams. "It's hard enough as it is."

It's like the song never played while she was burying her face in his hair, like they never put it on the rental car stereo when they were driving around her hometown to escape from her parents at Thanksgiving, like she never played it while trying to bring herself to replace the Brita pitcher he took with him when he moved out.

"How about a new station," you say.

"You can play it," she whispers. "It's fine. It doesn't matter anymore. Let the song play."

That's when she starts swearing and punching the back of your seat and slamming her palms against the car window. You hardly ever give a passenger a bad rating but you can't have someone becoming violent and treating your vehicle like that, no matter how hard it is to discover that even the pain a lover leaves behind will eventually go away. The window rattles a little now.

Happy You Can Play It It's Fine It Doesn't Matter Let The Song Play Day!

You're Going To Lose Your Job Working The Front Desk Of That Hip Downtown Hotel Day!

She hates champagne.

It's a fact. You know this fact. And if it's your job to give guests a peerless experience, catering to their every whim and desire, should you not speak up when you know something won't be to their liking?

"And send us up a bottle of champagne okay?" the guy says.

You wink and say no problem, continuing to punch into your keyboard. The first name on his credit card is "Dirk." You didn't know anyone was actually named that. You make no mention of it.

"Or make it two bottles," he says.

You give him a smile and a nod. It's going to be a big night for him. You'll make sure he has the necessities.

"Can we get late checkout?" he asks.

You don't see why not. Since he's stayed before you can even wave the fee. You're a good front desk clerk who's ready to give a preferred customer all the time he needs to get to know his new acquaintance.

"There you are," he says as she returns from the bathroom and takes his arm. "They do have rooms, we're all set."

You pause in your typing to look at her, then at him, then at her again. She gasps, loosens her grip on his arm.

"I'll cancel the champagne," you say.

Dirk's confused. "No we want the champagne."

"It's cancelled," you say.

Dirk places his hand on the desk. "Listen, what is this?"

She's staring at the ground, her hands at her sides now, a purse in one of them. She looks both gorgeous and shattered.

"She hates champagne, Dirk," you say.

Dirk looks to her, and then you. He signals your manager behind you.

"I'm trying to order champagne for the room but this guy's being a dick about it."

Your manager asks you what this is about and you say you're just trying to give the guests what they want, and you happen to know that the lady on Dirk's arm does not want champagne.

"She hates it so much we considered serving something else," you say. "Almost went with a signature cocktail, a fizzy grapefruit thing, but the wedding venue would have tacked on $1500 and we realized we were just complicating things."

"Wait, you're married?" Dirk says to her, but she ignores him.

"I didn't know you worked here," she says.

"Just started two weeks ago," you say.

"Give him the champagne," your manager says.

"I got your letter," you tell her. "Your maid of honor handed it to me while I was still at the altar, but I didn't read it 'til I got to Aruba."

"I've added the champagne order back to your room, sir," your manager says, typing into a neighboring terminal.

"It wasn't right," she says. "Did you think it was right?"

"Go to my office and wait there," your manager says. "I'm sorry about all this, sir. The champagne is comped."

"Don't forget the late checkout," you tell your manager. "They think they've got something special and they want all the time they can get to really explore."

"My office!" your manager says.

You move to the back but she stops you.

"Wait!" she says.

The room falls into a pause.

"Was the resort nice?" she asks. "Aruba?"

You shrug. "Lot of pools," you say. "Too many kids though. The kids would have annoyed you."

You head back to the office and wait to be fired while she and Dirk head up to room 718. You assigned them that room because you knew she'd like it. It's got a perfect view of the park where you proposed.

Happy You're Going To Lose Your Job Working The Front Desk Of A Hip Downtown Hotel Day!

Maybe You Should Look Up Some Old High School Friends To Fuck While Visiting Your Dying Brother Day!

He's got cancer but you've got needs.

"Jeff," you type into Facebook chat. "I know I unfriended you a while back so thanks for reaccepting my friend request. I'm in town and could come to you."

Jeff says his ex-wife just let him move back in and he'd better not screw this up since he doesn't have rent money for a place of his own but sorry about your brother.

"Murray," you message on Google Plus, the only social network he seems to be on which means he must be in a cult. "I don't care who your God is, Murray. I still taste you from homecoming and I'd like another bite."

Murray says he's got a workshop this weekend that you should attend so you block him and change your passwords.

Your brother wakes up for a second, lets out a morphine scream that fades to a whimper about your mom. You hit Tinder and match with your prom date's little brother.

"He'd hate it if we hooked up," you tell him.

He says your prom date can't hate anything anymore since he committed suicide his senior year of college.

"In his memory then?" you plead. Radio silence.

You throw your phone and lay your head on a free stretch of your brother's hospital bed. Your dad comes in to relieve you.

"I'm sure you have someplace to go," he says.

You look at your brother, his shoulder blades so pronounced you can spot the fracture he took in JV lacrosse.

"I don't have anywhere to go," you say.

You put your head back on the mattress and listen while your Dad reads from Stephen King's "The Tommyknockers," a book your dad remembers your brother saying he enjoyed. They had a copy on the hospital lending shelf.

Happy Maybe You Should Look Up Some Old High School Friends To Fuck While Visiting Your Dying Brother Day!