In a corner of Brooklyn Heights, stood the charming establishment of 45 Pineapple, which I’m the proud owner of. My establishment didn’t cater to travelers or tourists—Mayor Eric Adams had banned short accommodations for humans, animals, or plants in Brooklyn Heights. But there was one loophole, and that was exactly where I thrived.
You see, my establishment housed only feelings. And let me tell you, it’s the weirdest business to run.
Oh, sure, it sounds romantic at first—giving sanctuary to the currents of human emotion. But trying to accommodate these unpredictable guests is a nightmare. One day, Grief moves into room 303, pacing the floors like a wolf in a cage, and just when you think you’ve figured out what he needs, he’s gone without a word, leaving the sheets crumpled and cold. The next day, Joy arrives barefoot in a silk robe, twirling through the halls and insisting on three umbrellas and a bucket of tulips—no explanation, no reasoning, just laughter trailing behind her.
The worst tenant? Anxiety, without question. She storms in unannounced, makes herself at home, and refuses to be ignored. She talks too loud, interrupts everyone, and raids the minibar, drinking half of everything while leaving the rest scattered like a battlefield. And as if that weren’t enough, she throws raucous parties in the lobby, dragging Anger and Doubt into the chaos. I ask her to leave daily, but she never listens..
When it all becomes too much, I retreat to the garden, where Bliss, my favorite guest, lounges in her hammock (woven from mushrooms btw). Perpetually high and unbothered she often murmurs reminding me: "They all leave, darling," she tells me with a lazy smile. "Even the loud ones. And so will you."
She’s right, of course. Every feeling eventually checks out. They’re always on the move, checking out and into other hotels around the world, from one soul to the next. I imagine other managers, just like me, searching high and low for Love, who’s always late to check-in, coaxing Despair out from under the bed, or trying to balance Guilt’s endless complaints with dwindling patience.
We’ve seen it all at 45 Pineapple. But nothing could have prepared me for him.
It was late autumn of 2024, and I had already decided to close the hotel for good after Christmas. I’d had enough. Feelings are volatile—each with different demands, clashing needs, and impossible expectations. Trying to keep them all happy is exhausting, and I was done.
That’s when he knocked.
"Good evening, ma’am!" he greeted me with a theatrical bow. "I am Mr. Dr. Professor Physicist M, though you may call me Dr. Geometry. I require a room."
"Sir, we’re closed," I said firmly. "I don’t know if you are a human, animal, or a plant, but as far as I can tell, you are not a feeling. This is an establishment for feelings only. No exceptions."
He leaned in with a conspiratorial twinkle. "Are you sure I’m not a feeling?"
I looked closely and discovered he had mismatched eyes. One was frozen blue, the other a lively green. The blue eye pondered every secret of the universe, while the green eye had already solved them all.
Just as I was still caught in the depths of his gaze, he plucked a single eyelash from each lid and handed them to me like a sacred offering. "Here’s my payment, ma’am," he whispered.
Oh my, how could I refuse such a precious payment?
"Come on in, Dr. Geometry," I said, holding the door wide.
He stepped inside, and the entire hotel transformed. Well, everything in the world began to glitch—colors bled into sounds, scents twisted into shapes, and shadows burst into laughter. Dreams dripped from the ceiling. Butterflies fluttered out of Dr. Geometry’s suitcase and slipped into the kitchen, waiting for a stomach to fill.
Understandably, my guests—feelings of all sorts—were drawn by the strange commotion. As they poured in, they rattled windows that hadn’t budged in years. Their frantic rush stirred embers, setting the old fireplace alight. Curiosity hovered close, peeking over shoulders, while Lust stretched on tiptoe to catch a glimpse. Apprehension lingered at the edges, pacing and muttering under her breath. Joy danced forward (still barefoot and in her silk robe), she dragged Hesitation along by the hand. Resignation drifted aimlessly through the crowd, momentarily forgotten, until Hope swept past and whispered, “You’ve stayed too long—I need to take over the room.”
Anxiety threw a fit. "You can’t just let anyone in!" it screeched. "Dr. Geometry is breaking all the rules!"
But Dr. Geometry just smiled, unfazed, and asked Anxiety what she was most afraid of. The question was so unexpected, so precisely calibrated, that Anxiety stood stunned for the first time in her existence. With that, Dr. Geometry tipped his hat, and Anxiety slunk out of the lobby in a huff. Bliss watched contentedly, pleased by the scene.
Anxiety was right. I was breaking the rules. Mayor Eric Adams found out about my unauthorized guest. He sent me a letter: "Cease operations at once, or your license will be permanently revoked."
But it didn’t matter anymore. Dr. Geometry had rented out the entire hotel. Some of the emotions decided to stay as servants, too. Dr. Geometry settled in comfortably among the emotions. He chatted with Joy over tea, debated with Regret late into the night, and made Bliss laugh so hard that she nearly tumbled out of her hammock.
And so, we spent the winter together that year, the hotel warmer and more alive than ever.
Our hearts are hotels meant to strictly house Feelings. But once in a while—if we are very lucky—some extraordinary human will slip through the cracks and take residence in our hearts, resting on as lightly as an eyelash, an eyelash that could only fall from beautiful blue (or green) eyes.
