Room keys dance on the hooks behind him. Half the keys clatter to the floor. And the brush of his wide shoulder the other way sends the remainder clattering down to join them, crunching under his likely gigantic shoes.
You have just the one peanut butter cookie saved in a shirt pocket -- perhaps some bittersweet crumbs.
Finishing your last peanut butter cookie, and fingering after the crumbs, you confront the hotelier -- determined to register -- and somehow regain your amour.
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