Rule Number 3: Don't Drop Emotional Bombs

Ms. Bellafonte's forehead might as well have been stamped: DISHEVELED.

Her nails,clean and polished, tapped impatiently on the front desk. She sported a sporty tracksuit not meant for actual workouts but more for the appearance of one who can afford a nice gym. Her hair sat stiff from product and combed straight back. I could not see her shoes from behind the desk but judging by her pearl white Channel handbag, they were probably expensive with the just the right hint of tacky.

A local, I thought. She had to be from the area and most likely stopped in last night too drunk to drive home. Maybe she was seeing her man-mistress. Maybe she was the mistress.

All of these thoughts spun while I checked-out her credit card...Wild speculation happens frequently at my front desk. It's more fun that way.

“Did everything work out,” I asked her: my usual quandary upon checkout.

“No. Not really. I didn’t get any sleep,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I was slightly surprised. “Was it too loud or something?”

“No. The hotel was fine,” her eyes lingered away from mine and a tired smirk came over her face. She paused for a second then said. “I live in the area but I had to check in last night because when I got home from work..." She paused again and looked back at me.

"I walked in on my husband fucking my best friend.”

Boom.

Uhhh. Uhhhh. Uhhh. I had nothing. I actually froze while handing her the receipt. My mouth fell open and slack jawed. Shock widened my eyes and the awkward bug bit when I tried to talk.

“OK BYE! HAVE A NICE DAY.” I practically yelled at her.

And at that very moment you could actually see her thinking, well thanks for not making that awkward.

I don't think she will back.