Helen Knable

It was a lovely evening in Seattle. You stood outside the motel in the outskirts of the city, watching the stars. Suddenly, you saw a 1991 Suzuki Swift hatchback drive up to the parking lot. Once the vehicle stopped, you saw a woman no older than 40 step out of her car, carrying a suitcase. She had long brown hair, styled done up in a French twist. She wore a cream-colored turtleneck shirt with cuffs, a matching scarf, a dark blue skirt, and beige high heels. Finally, she wore a light grey longcoat. You could tell at first glance she was some kind of businesswoman.

She hurried to the lobby to check in for the night. Before long, she came out with a key and walked up to the motel room next to yours. She looked at you and caught a glimpse of your beauty. You spotted a wedding band on her finger. Between that and her flustered demeanor, you sensed that this woman was having marital problems.

Oh, good evening, she greeted with a smile, her tone being a mix of politeness and anxiety, My name is Helen Knable. She held out her suitcase to me, Would you mind holding this while I get into my room?

You took her suitcase, and watched as Helen used her key to unlock the door. Once the door opened, she led you into her room. You carried her suitcase inside and handed it back to the housewife.

Thank you so much for helping me, Helen said in earnest. This night has not exactly been great for me, to put it lightly.