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A demon in the hotel

I love her at first sight. All of sudden, she is in the open hall of the hotel where breakfeast is served. Outside is a shaded terrace with a seaside view. This is a prime location for a hotel, a restaurant, an early breakfast, for her. She didn’t enter from the terrace. I’m sure of that. She must have entered from the back, where the gardens and the swimming pools are, the high trees, the holy statues of deities, the spouting fountains, the demons between the plants. She had been in the garden. No, I don’t think she is a demon, a fountain or a statue. The body of the grinning demons under the splashing fountain water are green, not hers. She is too quick and elegant, too vivid and vital to be a statue. However, she might be a new demon, her big eyes wide open although behind glasses (most demons don’t wear.) Okay, she is not a local demon, speaking fluently and loudly Spanish but no English. Her hair is blond, meticulously dyed and her eyes are of a dangerous brown color. She cannot smile.

Yes,she can grin like a demon, her face and teeth and  her little ball shaped nose are one great grin that blurs my view. I admit she has a similar stature as a demon, a short body, short arms and legs and beneath her propped up breasts a

marvelous hill of flesh, a mighty belly. She loves grinning and eating a lot of food. There she is, fully shaped and all of a sudden in the center of the hall. I bow slightly to welcome her in this grand room. No, I don’t invite her to my table although I would like her company, her lively demonhood. She is not alone. In her left hand, I like that, she holds a cigarette still not burning, while her right hand balances the opened lap top with a big screen.The computer looks very impressive like real equipment to prepare a sandwich or to catch a flying monster. She is wildly swaying the open mouthed laptop along the tables of the guests and along the buffet with the glasses and the cups, the tea and the coffee, the fruit juices and the milk. It’s like an open beak that wants to munch the breakfast of all the guests. Coming close, it will pick bread and mie, nasi goreng and fruit and pancake, eggs and tomatoes, cucumber and potatoes, all food on the counter, all on the bar and all food of the plates on the table of the guests. It grabs and sweeps, it picks and swallows as long as the open mouth doesn’t really close. And the demon woman runs around and dances between the guests and starts to threaten eating them alive if they don’t solve her problem. She is becoming angrier and the guests are first trying to defend their food, but soon they hide under the table or behind the counter being afraid to be swallowed by the excited demon roaming across the hall and front terrace. Almost furious she is now, because there is no internet connection and her splendid laptop isn’t working. All connections are broken down and cannot be restored this early in the morning, the staff is telling her friendly. She is, however, losing her temper and the laptop is attacking the guests, the staff, the food and the opening morning, the new frightened guests descending from the stairs. The eyes of the demon are rolling out of her face, her voice is starting to shriek and her big belly is swelling of anger and hunger and of the first guests and personnel that have been swallowed by her.She lifts the laptop high up in the air, while her voice sends shots and sounds through the breakfast room. Then, a young staff member comes in calling her as a cat and calming down her hissing. All of a sudden she listens, lowering her voice and silence enters the room. The charming waiter walks up to her making a little bow and saying in fluent and well sounding Spanish: Perdoneme, senora, hoy, internet no fonctiona. And the demon leaves the woman, the guests stand up, the staff restarts its service and slowly the little hands of the small Spanish lady close the mouth of the laptop. And the lady takes a seat besides me at the round table and harmlessly smiles. And she whispers hesitantly in a kind op spenglish: it iiz a biutifool morning, sir, isn’t it?