"Living in Hotels" by Eva Konstantopoulos
And I know, I know, and her hands are cold, and I untangle her book bag and put it on my shoulders, letting her hold her coffee so it can warm her hands and –
“Excuse me! Yeah, could you hurry it up. I’m on my break.”
On the other side of the counter is a man that works at Houghton & Miff. I already know his drink before he does: “Soy Café Latte, not too warm, not too hot.”
Behind the lady with the pigeons, Anna floats farther and farther away, becoming another stranger beyond the tinted glass. Her ghost dissolves down the steps, first her boots, then her jacket, then her.
I wash my hands and pick up the phone. I know he’s number, it’s appeared in Anna’s cell-phone enough times for me to remember.
Jimmy B. A salesman in Downtown Crossing who predicts people’s worth by the brand of shoes on their feet. He’s twenty-five and has been working the same shift since his Sophomore year of High School. I don’t expect him to be of any use, but before I know it, I’ve weasled out a string of assorted sentences that lead me three blocks down from the bright bubbly letters of the Holiday Inn.
A lady sporting a Harvard sweatshirt pushes the handicap button to sway the heavy glass doors in my favor, and I step into a piece of yellow chewing gum as I walk up the steps. I tell myself I’m doing the right thing, even though the man behind the desk doesn’t agree with me.
He’s not allowed to give out names and must have misplaced his girlfriend too because all he can manage to do is gawk at me with beady eyes. I go to the rest room and take the remaining strings of yellow off the sole of my shoe. When I walk back to the lobby there’s a petite woman with thin lips behind the desk, a mouse in doll’s clothes.
“Excuse me,” I contort my mouth to form what I hope is a charming grin, and she twitches her nose and smiles.
In the elevator, a girl and boy argue over where to eat dinner. I chant 413 under my breath.
In the hallway, an Exit sign radiates carefully from the end of the corridor.
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