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Aria
                          
What are the chances that a group of men would return from a weekend camping trip, their rented bikes caked with mud and forest debris?
                          
I consider this as I peer out the front windows of the building, at the exact scene occurring before me, as my migraine begins to return with full-force. After dinner with my parents and Jax, I went out for drinks with Scarlett. And because the buzz wasn't enough for either of us, she came to Aunty Emyln and Uncle Hainsey's house after; we locked ourselves in the spare room and spent our time watching cheesy romance movies (all of which I hated) while nursing homemade margaritas. I felt my hangover migraine returning about half an hour ago and attempted to choke down a mug of black coffee out of desperation to prevent it from striking me down, but my plan of action appears to be failing.
                          
 I quietly groan, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. I wish Ben were here, but thanks to the upcoming season, he's also enduring intensive training and couldn't make it to work today for that very reason. 
                          
And, to make matters worse, due to our lack of staff today, I haven't gotten a chance to eat the lunch I brought. My stomach is growling in protest and my heart is being tested by the raw reality that I am now inclined to socialize with these men, bid then farewell, and then clean off the thirteen mountain bikes that have been caked with mud, debris, and God knows what else. 
                          
I thought Leo and I running the place would be a fun experience, but as the day goes on, I'm beginning to second-guess myself. With only the two of us dealing with large waves of customers, we've been on our heels all morning, running back and forth between renting bikes to random groups, taking in returns, fixing mechanical issues, or trying to explain why our rates have gone up since last year. I've even had to step aside and explain the importance of taking one of our complimentary maps to a couple of American tourists. 
                          
With gritted teeth, I step out into the summery air and approach the group of men. I recognize them from the previous Thursday and they all look about the same as they did back then. But the smell? The smell is an entirely different story. When I'm standing beside one of the men, Louis, I believe his name is, I'm overwhelmed by the rancid smell of body odour, wet dog, and sweaty gym socks. I do my best to not gag, but it's difficult. With the potent smell surrounding each one of them, they smell worse than my hockey equipment. 
                          
"Hi," I smile brightly, pushing past my migraine and the stench. "How was your weekend?"
                          
"Great," Louis smiles, stroking his peppery beard. "We couldn't have asked for better weather. And these mountain bikes ran smoothly; we had no mechanical issues whatsoever. We will definitely be coming back to this company next year."
                          
I try not to display my disagreement. If it hadn't of rained up in the mountains this past weekend, then they probably wouldn't reek. 
                          
"That's wonderful," I reply, assessing the bikes from afar. I have to do this in case there has been any damage we, as employees, can't repair. If there's such damage, we charge our customers extra. So far, everything looks good. "We strive to hear those types of comments from our customers."