500 Word - Hotel for Phobics by T A Fynes

My  mother had taken me on my 18th birthday to a big city hotel.

She was a good friend of Gregor the owner. We spent the day shopping. 

Later that night as we watched a gigging blues band play. I was totally enraptured by Alex the bass player. I was touched by a nervous irrational excitement. 

All sorts of emotional electric currents pulsated through my veins. I held onto my mother’s hands for fear of falling. The fever rush was extreme. Nausea, trembling, a rapid heartbeat, a sensation of being swept away into another reality.

I met Alex after the gig, all alone. I had sent my mother back to the room. I shook when he touched. 

Alex was tall, handsome and funny. Just about everything a young girl could wish for. 

I was still experiencing the same trembling and rapid heartbeat. I knew this was love. 

My mother confirmed it. 

She held my head, pulling me in very close, “Susi my child, love strikes in the most unusual of places, and you must be quick to grab and hold onto it. Otherwise, you’ll regret it till the day you die.” 

I ran away with Alex that very night. And split three months later when I realised, he was a douchebag. Everything that moved me had disappeared, except for the nausea. 

I headed back to the hotel where it had all happened, to find Gregor, and hopefully some answers. He asked me to describe my first meeting with Alex. 

“He was onstage with his glorious Rickenbacker bass, riffing away. His long hair was shining like a Greek god. His pelvic movements were so sexual. His T-Shirt was…..” 

Here I stopped, as I realised I was getting the same trembling and rapid heartbeats again, just thinking about him. Was I still in love with that loser? The nausea had also come back.

Gregor stopped me at this point. “The T-Shirt, was there anything special about the T-Shirt.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling a bit lightheaded as I recalled it. “It had a very long stylised word on it. I asked Alex about it. He said it was the longest Welsh word in the world.”

And then I passed out.  

Gregor was trying to revive me with cold water when I came too. 

“I think I know what your problem is, he said, “It’s the Welsh word, “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,” and it is, the longest place name in the world.”

“But what has that got to do with me and Alex?”

“Nothing really, except for the T-shirt he was wearing.” 

“T-shirt?”

“Yes, I believe you are suffering from, Sesquipedalophobia.”

“What!!!Who?”

“It’s a fear of long words, and it seems to have been triggered by his T-Shirt.”

“You mean, my great love affair, was just a phobia over his lousy T-Shirt.”

“Maybe some of it was real?”

I knew exactly which bit.

Years later, I still remember with fondness, and a slight nausea, that 18th birthday I spent in the Hotel for Phobics.