The Savoy
Harrison Ford called me last night and said, Make a reservation for two and put it under the name, Jonesy. I didn’t understand the occasion but when Harry wants to do something, I’ve learned not to ask questions. I said, No problem. See you soon. In room 214, I sat for an hour in a dark suite directly in the path of one strong beam of sunlight that forced its way through a hole in the curtains. When Harry came in, instead of noticing the way my milky flesh tones and flashes of strawberry hair weaved into the single strand of natural light, the way my green eyes shone as if a lightbulb were behind them, he asked me who I was. And why are you sitting there, he asked. I told him I thought it would be sexy, unusual, charming. He told me to put my clothes back on. What do you think this is, he said. A farm? Flushing and confused, I hastily threw my robe back on and returned to the front desk from where I left. The phone rang again. Good afternoon, I said. The Savoy Hotel, how may I help you?
