"Living in Hotels" by Eva Konstantopoulos

 

I saw her on the street five days later. She walked by me, fast. Her hands deep in her pockets, her head low. She wasn’t begging. A part of me wished she was so I could whisk her away to my kitchen and feed her minestrone soup and seedless grapes from our fridge. We could save the questions for later, after I had washed her hair and cut her nails and made sure she was comfortable, and would she like a pillow and maybe another cup of tea? Darjeeling, please, with two swirls of honey. The way I would make it when I’d come home to find her staring out the window after work, waiting for night and watching the sky above the buildings and how light it was, how light everything was.

She passed Starbucks everyday on her way to somewhere else. She always crossed Scollay Square an hour before noon, her hands searching for something deep in her pockets.

 

One day, she came up to the counter inside the store. I hadn’t seen her walk by that morning and I was considering who I could call, but then, there she was.

She looks at me expectantly, my Anna. She fidgets with the zipper on her sleeve. I don’t know if I love her. Her face is smooth and hollow and four or five people have begun to collect behind her, shifting impatiently from foot to foot.

“I have to...do this,” I cough and resume my position at the Brista. My neck burns. I try to convince myself that I am someone else. I can feel her watching me, the dark crescents under her eyes.

“Can I help the next customer?”

Anna does not budge.

“Move lady!” A man with a mustache grunts behind her.

“Get a job...” Another mutters, an accountant with two kids who works at Pierson & Sons across the street.

Anna does not budge.

Finally, she reaches into her pockets.

“Coffee. Small – Tall. Whatever,” She says, focusing on my name tag instead of me. She pulls out a handful of nickels, dimes, and pennies. The line continues to swell as she examines a piece of lint mixed in with the change. Then she begins to count: “- 1 – 2 – 3 – 8 – 12 – 13 – 14 – 15 – 45  – Oh, look, here’s a dime.” 

 

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