1
I don’t know what I’m doing here – kneeling before a toilet bowl in the second floor men’s restroom of a swanky hotel.
Oh wait. I do.
I’m trying to get through college, trying to make up the payments because my Mom lost her job. It isn’t her fault. In this economy, her company was retrenching half the staff, and since she was only two years into the job, that qualified her to take less of a package than the oldies. So she’s the one who has to take the fall.
The only problem with having so many retrenched people around? The jobs are scarce. Waitressing is good, but since I came in so late on the game, all the good jobs have been taken up. Morton’s. McCormick’s and Schmick’s. Giordano’s, home of the deep dish pizza.
So the only gig I can find is this one – being a maid in a hotel in downtown Chicago. It pays relatively well for what it’s worth since it’s a five-star hotel on the Magnificent Mile and everything.
As for my Dad? He blew when I was ten.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not wallowing in self-pity. I’m too busy scrubbing the toilet bowl in this stall until I can see my face on the concave surface, besides my reflection in the clean water. That’s how Mr. Mangorean likes them.
“Not one atom of grime must be discerned, Ms. Turner. We host Presidents and Secretaries of State.”
Well, there was only that one time during the Democratic convention, I want to say. But I don’t, of course. And I didn’t know grime was measured in atoms.
“So make sure it gleams, Ms. Turner. Gleams.”
There’s a fanatical gleam in his eye when he says this. I figure Mr. Mangorean is one of those people who love their jobs too much.
Still, I’m grateful to have a job. Any job. And so I put my head down, scrub until my right arm aches something awful. My reflection in the porcelain is that of an average-looking, dark-haired college junior. OK, I’m on the fairly attractive spectrum, but I’m nothing to shout home about. It’s not like I’m a cheerleader or something. The hot boys were always interested in my friends and roommates, never me.
It never bothered me. Mom and I were just trying too hard to get me into college, and now that I’m in – to keep me there. Survival just got in the way of boys.
Outside the stall, the door of the restroom whines open.
Drat.
Typical of people. They just ignore the ‘CLEANING IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DO NOT ENTER’ sign at the door and waltz in as if they own the place. I mean, neither do I (own the place), but at least I know how to avoid wet hotel bathroom floors. There was this one time that I almost slipped on one, the klutz that I am, and I’ve been avoiding them ever since.
Footsteps. The clippity-clap of men’s shoes on the wet linoleum. If he should slip and sue the hotel, I’m so not going to be responsible for this.
I wonder if I should give a shout-out like “Excuse me, sir, but did you notice the yellow sign outside the door? I’d really appreciate it if you’d go to the restroom downstairs.”
The one that doesn’t have an atom of grime in it last time I checked, since I’ve just cleaned it thirty minutes ago.
I don’t have to be anal about this. Maybe he’s desperate to take a leak. Maybe it’s an emergency.
The footsteps stop. After a while of not hearing anything else, I cautiously peek out of the stall.
A man is standing before the large mirror that stretches all the way across the wall with the multiple black marble sinks. And not just any man.
He’s the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
I’m not just saying that. He really is, according to his reflection in the mirror. He has smoky eyes that look . . . well, I’m not sure what color they are from this distance . . . but they are half-closed and framed by the longest and most beautiful lashes, as if he’s contemplating something important. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he’s got the cutest little depression in his forehead just in between his frowning eyebrows.
His dark brown hair is longish and just kisses his shoulders. His lips are full and lush. And oh, his body beneath his charcoal grey suit. He’s wearing the suit – but his body is extremely tight. I can tell about these things. I’ve never had personal experience in touching a body like that, but I just can tell from my fantasies, you know what I mean?
A man who looks like that should be off-the-charts illegal. So what’s he doing here in this forbidden-for-thirty minutes-of-cleaning restroom? My restroom?
(Oh yeah, now I’m getting possessive about public restrooms. I’m just one step to becoming Mr. Mangorean.)
He’s so fixated with his own reflection (I know I would be too if I were him) that he doesn’t notice me.
He’s muttering to himself: “Damn, damn, damn, Fuck. Damn the bastard . . . to hell.” He grimaces and turns on one of the taps. Then he leans over the sink to splash water onto his gorgeous face.
He’s even hotter when he’s wet.
Amid the sound of the running water, he still doesn’t notice me as he raises his face – water-streaked and glistening like a river god’s.
He says, with heat, to his own reflection, “You’re not going to do what he tells you. This is the f**king last time.”
His accent is a little off. He speaks perfect English, of course, but he doesn’t talk like everyone around here. He’s not British. He’s not Canadian. I can’t really put my finger on his accent, but he’s only said very little, so far.
I should really give him his privacy.
Hell, he should give me my privacy.
I clear my throat and creep out of the stall, still holding my brush in one hand. The one that has been scrubbing away the atoms of grime.
He still doesn’t turn.
“Excuse me,” I say loudly. My own voice echoes weirdly in my ears. “Excuse me!”
The man swivels his head. His eyes widen in surprise as they see me.
I wave my brush. “I’m cleaning up in here, so if you’d like to use the first floor restroom, it will be a lot more private.” If there’s no one else in it, of course.
I think his eyes are a marvelous blue-green. Oh my God, they are dreamy. This is the last time I will ever see them, so I’d better soak them in while I can.
I’m staring at him and he’s staring back at me. I don’t know. We must have stared at each other for the longest time, or what I believe is the longest time – because time seems to have frozen for me. And even the trickle of sweat that runs in between my butt cleft seems to travel ever so slowly . . . as the atoms of electrified air between us freeze.