The truth about Margo

The concierge saw her car arrive on the security cameras and tossed his tuna sandwich into the trash can. He would be in no mood for food any time soon. Wiping his hands and lips with a napkin, he threw his cap on and hurried to the entrance door. He drew a long and painful breath, and was just on time to smile across the glass door as she climbed the steps. Her driver rolled the windows down, and the yellow lanterns of the entrance lit his scarred face. He used to be a professional boxer. Now his septum, cracked, crooked and flattened, allowed little scent in. “Makes sense,” the concierge mumbled, losing some of the precious air. He forced his lips into a smile. Just when he thought his lungs would burst, he swung the door open, and started pushing the air out in a thin, controlled stream through his nose. “Good evening, Ms. Margo,” he said. “How was the gala?” She stopped then. Why did she stop? Why had he asked? He should have let her pass in silence. Her lips curved. She watched…