"Living in Hotels" by Eva Konstantopoulos

I leave her to rot in that tiny cell with no windows, well, maybe one – but there’ll be bars, which is worse, because she’ll see outside to what she can never have. And her roommate, who the fellow inmates call Kitty or Talon and sometimes Bob, will be scared of water, Kitty/Talon/Bob will be afraid of bathing herself in any way – And the only hope Anna will look forward too will be me. She’ll count down the hours over her faded calendar, I’m the only appointment she’ll have. The days will fall like change on the street. No one will bother to carry them, but she will. She’ll have too. She’ll have nothing else to do but sit and wait until it’s best for me to see her.

Anna stands over me, a half-opened mustard packet oozes down my arm. I fold my hands, crack my knuckles. Anna steps back, but I just look at her.

She raises her eyebrows, uneasy by my silent stare. It’s the same expression she used to have after asking me to stay home from work and I’d shove my Starbucks apron in my back pack anyway. She’d fall asleep so she wouldn’t have to answer me when I said good bye, good morning, but I could tell, even then, that she was awake. No one sleeps with their eyebrows buried in their forehead. I could tell she was trying not to laugh when I looked at her and grabbed my keys. Both of us knew as soon as she heard the door creak shut, she’d fall out of bed and then pull back the curtains, watch me walk down the street before I disappeared around the corner, making sure that I was gone for good, for now.

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