"Living in Hotels" by Eva Konstantopoulos

 

Do Not Disturb hangs on the doorknob of 413. I knock and it creaks open. The water runs in the bathroom and a sterile glow seeps out from under the door, but Anna sits on the bed. Her legs folded to her chest. 

The curtains are drawn, although the sun still manages to cast lazy corn-colored beams on the walls. There are crusty beads of macaroni and stale cheese on bowls, soiled plastic cups with brown water resting on the dresser. She maneuvers past me to shut the water off in the sink.

I walk a few steps towards her.

On the right, a towel lies under a box of Chai tea, and on the left, a pyramid of hotel soap looms between the mirror and porcelain toothbrush holder. A blockade of miniature sewing kits, shower caps, and bath gels surround the pyramid, keeping the structure in place.

“Do you want some tea?” she says. “Don’t worry, I paid for it.”

I stare at the soap, her collection of gold and white plastic squares, “Did you make a deal with the maid or something?”

When Anna doesn’t answer, I clear my throat, “Guess it could be worse. You could be dealing drugs. The worst soap will do is make you smell nice.”

Anna doesn’t look at me. She opens the box of Chai, but all that’s left is a few loose seasonings stuck in the creases of the cardboard. She shoots the box in the trash, which is empty, and falls back on the bed.

“I have hot water…” She digs her hands deeper into her pockets. “Do you want to go? You can if you want.” Swinging her feet up next to a framed sunset, she shifts her ankles around like she’s dancing on the wall.

“Hot water’ll be fine. Anything warm.”

Nodding, she rolls off the bed and busies herself with a make-shift pot by the coat rack, “It’s good to see you, you know that?”

“No.”

“B’s a weasel for letting you know.”

“You’re no better for not letting me know. And B’s a weasel no matter what he does.”

 

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