Leaving the equipment in the hallway Bertha steps into the suite and scopes the area.

Suite 48, her age. The blinds have been shut, so she walks across the room and pulls them open; the room lights up, revealing dust particles in the sallow sunshine air. She switches on the fan, to air it out a bit. Bertha used to wish she could open the windows to let some fresh air in, but now she knows better. (“It fucks up the whole circulation” – her boss, chewing away on nicotine gum – “and the airplanes. They’re too loud and they smell. That’s why,” and she would tap on the glass demonstratively, “we sealed them. Deal with it, Bertha.”)

She’s dealt with it, and soon became accustomed to the chemical freshness of air-conditioned aerosol. (She especially likes the Pine Nut one, for it reminds her of a backyard long ago, somewhere in the distant bitter-sweet memory of childhood.)

Now that she can see more clearly, Bertha notices the tray with dinner leftovers on the table, and an empty coke can next to it. What used to be coke turned into brown ice on the bottom of the glass, which also contains – clearly placed there in a moment of abrupt immaturity – the dirty fork from the plate of half-eaten mashed potatoes and roasted chicken, all bones and skin.

Bertha glances up at the bed. The rumpled sheets were un-tucked violently in a claustrophobic fit. Whoever the guy is (and Bertha knew it was a guy the moment she walked into the room, she always knows) he certainly doesn’t feel comfortable in confined spaces. He probably sleeps half-covered, one of his legs sprawled over the polyester blanket.

Let’s call him Mr. Dark.

She looks back down at the table. There are ashes on the shiny polished surface. Invisible to most, but you couldn’t fool her. She leans closer and squints. Tiny green specks.

Mr. Dark is good at concealing things. Somehow, the room isn’t smoky, but there is a faint smell of phosphorus. Most travelers have their lighters confiscated at the airport security, so they carry matches. He made sure not to throw any burnt matches into the trash. Probably flushed them, or…

She lifts the empty coke can from the tray and glances inside, then tips it. Several wet charcoaled matches fall out. Bingo.

Pleased with her investigative work, she sits on the bed, feeling like her small victory justifies the break. (Her boss would disagree, frown upon it; Bertha doesn’t care. To her, she thinks, life is about insignificant personal fulfillments and enjoying small victories).

So, Mr. Dark, what do we know about you? You’re mildly claustrophobic, you hate waking up to sunlight in the morning, you don’t drink, you like chicken and mashed potatoes, you’re a smoker, and you occasionally break rules for minor thrills. You probably shoplift from time to time, things like chocolate bars and smelly candles, because you’re a kleptomaniac, and/or because it gives you goose-bumps of joy.

Bertha jumps up and heads into the bathroom.

All right, Mr. Dark, you’re losing some hair; a brunette, about 6’1, judging by the position of the shower-head. There are cancerous stains on the surface of the water in the toilet bowl – you flushed those cigarette butts down, didn’t you, sneaky Mr. Dark? Oh, and it seems like you’re quite absent-minded too, since you forgot your shaving cream, and had to get the cheap little tubes from reception…

Bertha chuckles to herself, for an image of this room’s brief inhabitant begins to form in her mind, constructed out of all the random puzzle pieces he left behind. She glances into the bathroom trash bin, and to her surprise sees an apple, a lime green Granny Smith, which seems to have been placed in the bin in an attempt to make it look like it had been thrown away. Bertha picks up the apple, holds it up to her face and almost gasps.

She wouldn’t have known what it was, were it not for her own short experience with marijuana in high school, and it just happened to be smoking it out of a homemade pipe – an apple, to be precise. Just like in the one she is holding up now, there was a hole on the top (“to pile the weed”, she remembers someone explain to her), and one on the side (“to smoke it” – and she remembers a goofy freckled grin, but nothing else).

So, Mr. Dark, it wasn’t cigarettes you smoked. You’re a pot-head, Mr. Dark, addicted to the point where you bring it to non-smoking airport hotel rooms, where -

Bertha hears someone walking in the hallway, and, dropping the apple back into the bin, rushes out to grab her equipment. Luckily, it’s just a guest, another traveler, stranded due to storms and delayed flights. Regardless, it is time to snap out of it.

Mr. Dark, you’re not off the hook yet. Just let me clean up this room.

She barely made it today.

Bertha sits in the airport shuttle and watches an airbus descend overhead. The roar of its engines makes the seats tremble. There are people in that airplane. Travelers.

The bus driver called her ma’am and made her feel old. But let’s look on the bright side.

She managed to avoid her boss. (She heard her on the phone as she snuck past her office, praying that the wheels on her cart didn’t squeal: “Yes, well, tell them I’ll be late this Saturday… I know I’m a bitch, Sam, but I have a life, you know? Things like family and friends.”) Mike the Barman gave her a smile on her way out. Overall, it wasn’t a bad day. Twenty-three rooms, polished, in time, if barely.

A young man in a bronze suit climbs into the bus, asks the driver if this bus goes to the car rental gate. The bus driver says yes, indeed it does, and the young man thanks him, and proceeds to sit across from Bertha. He has a small duffel bag which he holds on his lap, and he closes his eyes, looking exhausted.

Are you Mr. Dark? Bertha finds herself thinking as she studies the man and his bronze, almost copper-colored suit. Are you upset because your flight was canceled, yet again? That’s pot in your little duffel bag, isn’t it? And now that you’ve left some evidence in suite 48, you’re renting the car to go get another room nearby, where you can smoke your worries away, and fall asleep with hopes of a better tomorrow…

The bus swerves to the side to avoid traffic. Bertha barely notices, her gaze shifting down to the man’s shoes. Light traces of mud stain the soles, and the shoelace seems dangerously close to being undone on the left one.

Long day, eh, Mr. Dark? Nothing like a nice lungful of smoke to ease the worries. Where have you been? Where are you going? There is only so much I can tell from the evidence I’ve gathered.  Can’t you tell me a bit more, just a little bit?

“Can I help you?”

Bertha’s eyes meet his, and they’re unfriendly. She doesn’t know what to say, and blushes, looks away. “Your shoelace…”

She doesn’t dare look at him but hears him bend over and tie his lace. The bus slows to a halt, and the driver cheerfully informs Mr. Dark that this is his stop. He gets up, and she sneaks another peak at him before he leaves, to find him looking back at her with an expression so ambiguous that the bus driver looks over his shoulder also, to see what in the world could be that weird back there.

It is grey and the clouds are low outside, but the windows are open, and gusts of autumn wind bring in smells of damp soil, so it’s okay.

Bertha stands in the living room of her suburban apartment on the twenty-third floor, wearing nothing but her robe, her hair still wet from the bath. She looks out at the fields and the construction site, an ugly scar in the swamp green. In the far corner of the small pond (which is actually a large muddy puddle situated directly in front of the high-rise) several ducks huddle together, bobbing in unison on the slimy surface.

When she was a kid, Bertha loved that ominous moment, the calm before the storm, when everything seemed to be on the brink of apocalypse. She used to lie out in the fields under the dirty clouds, watching them fill up and fluctuate and get ready to burst (despite her mother’s stories of men electrocuted by lightning out in the fields; who cares, she’d think). That was long ago, and now she finds herself sniffling softly while looking out of her window at the impending storm. Electricity is in the air; it’s so static she can almost feel it in her lungs. Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, Bertha slams the window shut and sprays some Pine Nut in the air.

She looks at her barren apartment. A chair, a desk, an ironing board, a small TV she hasn’t watched in months, maybe over a year. It’s quite pathetic, whimpering fake life in the corner, she thinks, I should get rid of it. The only reason it’s still there is because it fills up some space, makes the apartment seem more inhabited. At least I’m conscientious, she thinks as she walks out into the kitchen that’s directly adjacent to the room. I keep this place clean. Not a spot of mold in the fridge or between the counters. No dust or rust stains to be found. My little clean cave. Bertha sits on the sole kitchen stool and looks down at the linoleum floor until its squiggly patterns blur and mesh. This would be kind of cool, she thinks, if I were high. Don’t you think, Mr. Dark?

Bertha’s cheeks redden at the thought, and her palms become sweaty. Where could I get some pot? How difficult is it to find some? She looks up at the yellow plastic phone hanging on the wall above her. Who can I call? Who do I know?

Henry would know how to get some. But then Henry would think the idea was silly. His bushy eyebrows would rise, and he would go, “What in the world is the matter with you, Bertie?”, and he’d rough up her hair with his oversized hands, like they were kids, like could get away with stuff like that…

But she can’t go there. She’s slipping, and she has to remain in control, push those thoughts away.

Who do I know? The question hangs in her mind for what seems like forever, until it looses meaning and becomes space filler, but the alternative is so much worse, so she forces the meaning back, and then answers: no one.

I could call Jenny. She might know someone. Bertha shakes her head. Silly. Jenny McCabe knows a lot of people, she’s sure, but she doesn’t know any drug dealers. Plus, Bertha hasn’t talked to her in years. Ever since she saw her wearing black.

She hasn’t seen or talked to any of her friends since that rainy afternoon. (Does it always rain during funerals? she remembers thinking.) They all acted so unnatural, there was such a strong sense of unease in the air, Bertha wanted to scream at everyone to just fucking relax, loosen up, hang out like they used to in the old days, get drunk and gossip and share caesar salads… But there was no way, under the circumstances, any of that was ever going to happen – they had to remain morbid and sullen; teary-eyed, mascara-smeared faces staring at her in sympathy so disgusting she could puke. Those weren’t her friends; they surrounded her, suffocated her with zombie-like, alien stares. Henry was gone, and her friends, the ones she knew, were gone as well. It’s been seven years, her life as a maid.

Bertha gets up from the stool and walks over to the kitchen window. Where are you, Mr. Dark? she wonders. It would be nice to get to know you. Perhaps you could get me some of that marijuana you were smoking, and we could smoke it together, sitting in the fields and waiting for the clouds to burst. The first roll of thunder reverberates through the sky, sending the ducks away in shrieking panic. A few hard drops splatter against the window glass, soon followed by dozens, then hundreds more. Bertha imagines herself and Mr. Dark, sitting out there on the edge of that crane, feet dangling over the abyss, smoking away in blissful oblivion.

Why, your bronze suite is getting quite wet, Mr. Dark, she says to him, and he just smiles, and says, I don’t care about the suit, Bertie.  After all, life’s about insignificant personal fulfillments and small victories. Yes it is, she agrees happily. We’re on the same wavelength, Mr. Dark, you and I. He does not reply, and she just feels happy and free, up there on the crane with him under the thundering sky.

Bertha listens to her neighbor murmur all through the night.

It has become a routine: around 9 p.m. she hears a repetitive shuffling, followed by a painful creaking of mattress springs, and then there is the murmur, too low to distinguish but unmistakably human. It goes on in a continuous monotone, until 6 a.m. or so, the time she has to get up and get ready for work.

She has never met the neighbor (he keeps to himself, even more so than she does) but she’s pictured him with a thousand different faces. She imagined him as a rogue spy, hiding away from the government in this shit-hole high-rise, murmuring secret information to allies; as a serial killer, murmuring prayers to his victims before he tortured them to death; as a man whose heart had been broken and who murmured his sorrows, for he couldn’t sleep.

Tonight she imagines him as Mr. Dark, murmuring stoned nonsense while puffing away on his apple. Probably cursing his delayed flights. There’s something waiting for him wherever he’s going, or someone maybe. A girl, his girl. He’s coming back to tell her the job interview didn’t go so well. He already knows what she will say: she’ll ask him how come the bronze suit didn’t work, mocking him, and he will wonder once again why he’s with her. She will call him a pot-head, and she will leave. And Mr. Dark will be all alone.

Bertha finds herself feeling bad for Mr. Dark. Why does it have to be this way?

And next thing she knows it’s morning, and it’s time to go to work.

There is a couple in the back, and they cuddle and exchange intimacies and laugh.

Bertha lives pretty close to the airport, but hasn’t had a car in a while, so she has to take the triple route: bus to train station, train to airport, airport shuttle to hotel. It takes her about half an hour on a good day, up to an hour if the traffic is bad and she misses her train. Instinctively she sits in the back of whatever mode of transportation she’s in, feeling safer huddled in the corner like a hermit.

She doesn’t feel that way today, her privacy invaded by the flamboyant couple. He’s a redhead, freckled young face with high cheekbones, gap between front teeth. She’s a chubby blonde with a corroded, raspy giggle. She’s on his lap, and her bag is on hers; as they kiss, its contents gradually make their way to freedom, but neither of them notices, engulfed in teenage passion.

It was thirty years ago that Bertha really fell in love for the first time (pre-Henry). The memory should be pleasantly nostalgic, but she hates remembering the good parts, almost as much as she hates remembering the bad ones. Yes, there was a time when life lay ahead, a long enigmatic path stretched out in front of her, full of exotic possibilities and redhead boys, but what’s the point? It’s all over now – pleasant memories only bring her pain. She tries not to picture Eric (was that his name?), tall and lanky, with an orange basketball in his large hands. She wills away the memory of her trepidation before asking him out, and her happiness when he said yes. Drenched in sunlight and sanguinity, Bertha’s memories are stinging sores in her head.

Several items finally escape from blondie’s bag, and she detaches herself from the boy to pick them up, shooting Bertha a quick glance, and a smile.

Bertha smiles back, but inside she weeps.

Mike the Barman is quite rich, the other maids say.

People will never stop coming to airports, flights will always be delayed, people will always drink. Hence Mike will always be rich. He makes an average of $350 a day, they say. She looks at him now, chatting with a young attractive woman as he wipes his hands on his apron. Master of the bar, his domain. He doesn’t look up at Bertha as she walks past him towards reception, and her heart sinks a little, but that’s okay.

She enters the little closet/room with all the equipment; Trevia is there, hunched over, teeth clenched in pain, holding several small shampoo bottles tightly in her hand.

“You should really go home already,” Bertha tells her sympathetically. “People leave much earlier than that, you know. You’re crazy.”

Trevia forces a smile, sits up and begins to sort out the shampoos on top of her cart.

“She doesn’t believe in maternity leave until it’s absolutely necessary,” she scoffs. “I mean, I could leave. But that would just piss the bitch off. And of the two alternatives, I pick this one. At least,” and she grimaces in pain, “until it’s unbearable.”

“You’re my hero,” Bertha tells her, and wheels her cart out into the hallway.

Suite 21. She can smell the perfume before she even steps inside. A flowery alcoholic scent, seeping out through the crevices of the doorway. Bertha knows that once she walks in, it will overwhelm her, intoxicate her, nauseate her, and her thoughts inevitably drift to the windows, and how she can’t open them. Leaving the equipment in the hallway Bertha steps into the suite and scopes the area.

It’s a mess. The sheets are everywhere, a chaos of linen and blankets and pillow-cases, tangled up in clumps like unruly hair. The TV is on, but it’s on mute; the anchor delivers news silently, a small square picture of a tank on the top right corner behind him. An open bottle of wine rests on the table, with only half-a-glass-worth left in it, its soaked cork suffocating inside on the crimson surface. And despite the pungent stink of perfume, there is an unmistakable smell of sex in the air, a sweaty-sour odor of skin and hormones and bodily fluids.

Bertha peeks into the bathroom. Wet towels litter the floor, sprawled in-between pools of water. Diffusing auburn soap residue and empty shower gel and shampoo bottles rest on the tiles in the shower.

A startling realization comes to Bertha at this point, a strong surge of despair. I’m a shampoo bottle, she thinks, staring down at the small plastic containers oozing viscous liquids. I’m pathetic, disposable, on the bottom of the shower.

Weighed down by a rigorous sense of melancholy, she proceeds to the windows, her mind blank, a tightness in her chest that suffocates and doesn’t let go. The curtains are open, and there are airplanes landing and departing, and life goes on, and she leans against the window, pressing her forehead hard against the glass to feel its coolness. She feels the glass vibrate softly to the airplane engines, but she hears nothing. It’s soundproof, and she knows that if she were to open it, a cacophony of noise would greet her, and she would welcome it, embrace it.

Women. There were two women in this room. Lesbians. Bertha’s almost sure of it. It’s the estrogen smell, the feminine disarray. They got stuck in this airport, so they decided to have a night of fun. Maybe they just met, maybe their flight got delayed, and they had a drink at the bar, and then…

Bertha blushes. She’s never been radically for or against gay rights, never really gave it much thought, but now she finds the notion of homosexuality quite exciting. I’ve never experimented, she thinks, what would it be like, to sleep with a woman? She turns and studies the room, as if the answer to her question lies there, under the rumpled sheets, or perhaps on the bed-side table, or in the bottle of wine. There are two empty glasses next to it, untouched; the wine was drunk straight out of the bottle. Bertha imagines a couple of rocker chicks with short frazzled hair, dyed in streaks, unwashed for days. Biker babes. Tattoos and piercings. Their eyes met at the bar downstairs, and then one of them (let’s call her Angel) gathered the courage to get up and walk over and ask if it would be okay to join the other one (Leslie) for a drink. They drank Heinekens, gradually becoming giddy, gazing into each other’s eyes and forgetting all about their cancelled flights. Angel blew into her empty beer bottle, and it let out a dull, hollow yelp. Let’s see if we can get a room here together, she then whispered mischievously, and Leslie happily agreed.

Bertha spots something by the bed, rushes over and pulls the blankets away, revealing a torn coffee-colored stocking. She picks it up, examines it. Her hands clammy, heart racing, Bertha feels like an aroused teenager. I’ve never experimented, she thinks, I should go to a gay bar when it’s dark out, suck a stranger off on the street, act like a dirty whore, what the hell, you only live once, right. There are so many things I haven’t done. Dark things, things people don’t talk about. Clutching the stocking she lowers herself by the bed, leans back against it, closes her eyes.

They guzzled wine out of the bottle and jumped on the beds. They undressed each other fervently, intoxicated from all the booze and perfume and passion. They played with each other all night, and the curtains were open for all travelers to see. The idea of being watched appealed to them, and they waved at airplanes as they flew by, giggling away. In the morning they showered together, throwing shampoo bottles at each other. And then they went away in different directions, never to meet again.

“Bertha?”

Startled, she doesn’t dare open her eyes, but she smells the nicotine gum. A bitter smell, like tar, like licorice. She can hear the chewing, chewing chewing chewing her teeth away. Farewell, Angel and Leslie. I wish you all the best, sincerely.

“Bertha, I’m talking to you. What the hell is going on?”

She wonders how strange she must seem, crouching by the bed, with a coffee-colored stocking tight in her grasp.

The coffee tastes horrible, and it’s not just this coffee, but coffee in general.

Coffee is one of the things Bertha drinks just because people drink coffee. Beer is another. Bertha only has a TV because other people have TVs (and because it fills up space). She only reads newspapers because everyone seems to read newspapers (especially on trains at 6:30 a.m.) She hates the news; in fact, most of the times she doesn’t even read the newspaper, just stares at the articles until they blur, content with giving people the impression that she’s like one of them. She only wears earrings and lipstick because every other woman in the world wears earrings and lipstick, and she hates the pointless process of applying make-up in the mornings, a waste of time. She only smiles at people because that’s what they expect. She’s only embarrassed to eat alone in restaurants because everyone else has a partner. But Bertha has drunk enough coffees (with Henry) to be able to tell, and this one tastes horrible, even for coffee.

The diner is slowly getting crowded; it’s lunchtime. Bertha replays the conversation – or monologue, to be exact – in her head. (It began with, “Are you serious?”, followed by a continuous shrill, “Bertha, it’s nine in the morning, you have to get those rooms cleaned up by three, and you haven’t even started! Are you purposefully testing my patience?… blah blah blah… It’s time to stop daydreaming, live in the real world a bit … blah blah blah… Frankly, it’s quite disturbing.”) She tries to remember how it all ended. It lasted so long, after a while her vision blurred, and she stopped registering information. Her boss may have fired her, but Bertha doesn’t remember, because by that time she wasn’t listening.

She ordered some pancakes, but they never came. Maybe the waitress forgot, but Bertha isn’t that hungry anyway, so that’s okay. She sips her coffee and looks outside. She is not used to being out of the hotel this early. It feels unnatural; like a zoo animal, suddenly out in the wide open prairie, Bertha finds herself baffled and unsure of what to do next. So she sits there, she tries to collect her thoughts, but there are no thoughts to collect, or maybe she just can’t be bothered, because ultimately she will have to go home again, and that is all there is. She is about to leave (her train is coming at 12:15, and it’s 12:06, and it’s a seven minute walk to the station), when two young women walk in, identical red hats and dimples as they laugh. They sit in the booth across from Bertha and order drinks, and Bertha sits back down on her cushioned seat, her eyes fixed upon the couple.

Angel and Leslie.

They look nothing like she imagined, but it doesn’t surprise her. Those two, they are perfect. They could be models, the two of them, high fashion. Bertha imagines them cuddling in black-and-white on an enormous billboard in Times Square, wearing nothing but CK panties. Angel laughs heartily, pearly whites, pink tongue. Leslie brushes her charcoal hair back, smiling in satisfaction. So beautiful, women can be so beautiful, so fragile and yet so tough; who was it that said, the most fragile of things can also prove to be the toughest, like the wings of a butterfly? Those girls, they’re too perfect, they’re otherworldly. Bertha tilts her head to the side, smiling dreamily at the ethereal couple.

The diner is packed with people: people sitting in booths, devouring burgers, washing them down with cold beers; people waiting for a table, in packs of two, three, four; people conversing, chatting, sharing jokes and ideas and useless bullshit; and in the midst of this chaos of everyday life sits Bertha, and she is unaware of the noise, or the people, or herself. Within her scope of perception there are only two, two glorious doves, embodiments of both fragility and strength. They unite in the dim lights of airport hotel rooms; gentle as feathers, they caress each other, two goddesses in human form, Angel and Leslie. What does it feel like, to be with each other, oblivious to what people say or think about you? I’m in awe of your confidence, Bertha thinks, watching Angel sip on her bloody mary. I want to be you, she thinks, watching Leslie grab one of the olives from Angel’s glass and sneak it into her mouth. Hey! Angel pretends to get angry, then laughs. Is it good? she asks. Mmm, Leslie says, smiling and nodding. So comfortable with each other, Bertha thinks. So happy. Why can’t I be as comfortable and happy? Can I be with you, Angel? Can you accept me, Leslie?

A young man walks over to their table, leans over, gives Leslie a kiss on the mouth. Then he says something, and Angel laughs, and Leslie pouts. The young man shakes his head and sits next to Leslie, puts his hand on her knee. Boyfriend. Suddenly Bertha becomes conscious of the environment, and the crowd, and the fact that she missed her train, and the next one doesn’t come for another half hour. She gets up in a hurry, almost knocking down the coffee cup with her purse. A group of four instantly fills her booth with laughter and friendly banter and incessant bliss.

Instead of waiting for the train Bertha decided to walk.

She strolls along the rail-tracks, listening to the change cling in her pockets with each step. An endless foray of ashen clouds race across the sky – for the rest of Bertha’s lifetime, it seems, the weather will be relentlessly bleak. It’s peculiar that the clouds fly by this fast, she thinks, because down here it’s quiet and still.

It’s peaceful; Bertha thinks about forests and hiking and nature. She thinks about trees – evergreens and oaks, sassafras and crying eves – and how marvelous they are, motionless giants, kings of our planet. They were there when the world formed, and they will last until it dies.  They really put us to shame, trees, she thinks. Who are we to cut them down? They are a great deal wiser than us. I should go camping again, Bertha decides apathetically.

Bertha went camping once. She remembers waking up in her sleeping bag, surrounded by whispering plant-life. At first she felt utterly isolated, and dirty, but luckily Henry was there next to her. She remembers falling asleep to the buzz of a single bee, circling their sleeping bags like a miniscule hunter.

Now Bertha is thinking about bees, and the recent report she heard on the radio on how bees are dying all over the world, and no one knows why, and it scares her. Bertha likes bees, little black-and-yellow kamikazes. With a sting, a bee gives away its essence; it dies quietly, and there is a certain dignity to that death, akin to the honorable death of a samurai warrior.

Bertha’s thoughts race with the clouds, switching from one to the next with alarming speed, and on a subconscious level she is aware of it, but is helpless, surrendered to the tidal wave of random concepts and memories, disconnected fears and reflections. She feels guilty for the time she carelessly questioned the logic of the Walt Disney universe in front of Henry’s eight-year-old nephew; she remembers her friend Louis, and how his whole life Louis was afraid of dying at the age of forty, because every member of his family died when they reached forty (what happened to Louis – is he forty, alive?); she thinks of eating healthy, and whether it’s worth it to constantly pay attention to eating habits, or if she’d rather die early but eat whatever the fuck she wants; she thinks of Henry, and what he would say to that (Henry liked to eat).

A dull ache starts to form like a tight-knotted embryo somewhere in the back of her skull. To distract herself Bertha glances up at the sky. Crows are circling overhead, flying low and ominous, presaging another downpour. She looks back down and spots a Marlboro pack on the cobblestones in-between the damp wooden tracks. Bertha bends over and picks it up; it’s a bit soggy, but there are three well-preserved cigarettes inside. Excited, she checks her purse – bingo! – she still has matches from hotel reception (she doesn’t smoke; the packs of matches are a form of ID to her, like business cards). The wind finally seems to have made its way down from the sky, and Bertha waits for the gust to pass, and then places a Marlboro between her lips, strikes a match, lights it. She closes her eyes and inhales. An instant nicotine rush makes her woozy, so she lowers herself on the rail, closes her eyes. She can hear the birds caw to each other. What’s she doing, do you think? one says. She’s just taking a little break, the other one replies. No need to worry about her – let’s get away from these clouds, she’ll be fine. Let’s go, before the rain comes.

“Ma’am?” A careful, confused voice. Bertha takes a deep drag from her cigarette and opens her eyes. A man dressed in a dirty blue uniform and a worn lime-green baseball hat stands a couple of feet away. He’s holding thick rolled-up wire in one of his gloved hands. “You okay, ma’am?” he asks, eyeing her.

She nods, smiling at him, takes another slow drag.

The man scratches the back of his head with his free hand. The lime-green hat wedges back, revealing a receding hairline, sparse sweaty hair. “Well, um,” he says, then points back. “There is actually a fence over there, in case you haven’t noticed. You’re not allowed to walk down here, ma’am.”

Bertha gives a submissive sigh, throws the cigarette away and gets up.

As she walks past the man, she hears the train rapidly approaching behind her, and then it rumbles past, boisterous and full of life, and then it’s gone.

Her light-bulb went out, and now the bedroom is dark.

Bertha lies in her bed, waiting to go to sleep, waiting for the neighbor to start murmuring. Right now it’s quiet, so quiet, as if the world died, and Bertha’s apartment were floating through vacuum. It is the kind of silence that makes the softest noise sound harsh, painful to the ear; the kind of silence that one welcomes after a long, exhausting day at work, or after a boozy night out with some friends; it is the silence of total tranquility – but to Bertha, it is the silence of death. The silence, she thinks, is forceful and subliminal, it gets inside of you, makes you hollow. This is how it feels, she thinks, lying on top of the covers, hands on her chest. To be dead. Just like that, numb and hollow on the inside, peace forced upon me.

Bertha exhales in relief when she hears the familiar shuffle, and then the squeak of mattress springs, and then she begins to drift away to the murmur, the murmur with a thousand faces, her murmur, her family.

That night she dreams of cupcakes, a thousand thousand cupcakes with yellow icing and neon-blue sprinkles. Right through the cupcake kaleidoscope she marches, breathing in the pungently artificial aroma of sugarcane and vanilla. “Bertie,” she hears a familiar voice say, and it sounds so reassuring, yet so remote. “Can you get me a cupcake, sweetie?” Suddenly she begins to remember: a green velvet couch, soccer game on TV, her head resting on a big belly – and before he could ask her for another cupcake she hastily wakes up.

It’s not dark anymore, but it’s not a cheerful morning either.

Cheerful or not, there are rooms waiting to get cleaned up, and they’re not going to do it by themselves. Bertha staggers into the bathroom, turns on the water in the tub, takes her clothes off. She sits on the edge of the tub and dips her feet into steadily rising hot water, as she gazes torpidly at her half-empty shampoo bottle. Fifteen minutes later nothing’s changed, except the water reached the drain, which makes bubbling noises as it sucks and gurgles and swallows.

The whole way to work, Bertha’s hands are damp, and she can’t do anything about it.

The airport today seems busier than usual. What day is it anyway? Friday? Saturday? It’s easy to get confused when you don’t have weekends. To the majority of people – normal people leading normal lives – that’s what weekends are for: to compartmentalize existence. They make it easier to live, habits. Weekends are something to look forward to during weekdays. When you have nothing to look forward to, Bertha thinks, life becomes a permanent week with no weekends. She wipes her sweaty hands on her pants and checks the screens marked Arriving Flights. It’s Friday, May 13^th.

“May I have your attention please. The threat level is now orange. If you see any bags…”

Bertha wonders, as she walks to the elevator that will take her up to the hotel lobby, how many times she’s heard the perfunctory announcement.  I should get away from all the monotony, she thinks, go to Laos, Land of a Million Elephants. She looked it up last week on the internet; it’s the rainy season, but so what? She could take the ferry down the Nam Ou river, breathing in the foreign smells of tropical forests (she’s never been to the jungle), and maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep inside the shrubbery, she would get a glimpse of the magnificent Indochinese tiger. It would be a surreal experience, like coming face to face with a mythical creature. What’s stopping me? Bertha thinks, stepping out of the elevator into the reception area. Why can’t I take one of those flights, be one of the travelers?

Impulsively, Bertha takes a little detour. Mike the Barman is behind the bar, watching the morning news, drinking a coffee. Surprisingly, it’s empty. Bertha perches herself on a stool. “Morning, Mike,” she says.

He glances over at her, “Oh hey, what’s up, um.”

A pang of disappointment. “Bertha,” she reminds him. “It’s Bertha.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “How you holdin’ up, Bertha?” His eyes go back to the screen.

“Can I get a…” She realizes she doesn’t really want anything, but at this point it’s too late. “A glass of water?’

“Sure.” His eyes don’t leave the screen (how involving can a story about a transvestite CEO be?) as he pours her a large glass. “Lime?” he asks. She shakes her head no. He gives her the water, and a smile that means nothing. Back to the news.

Bertha sips, crunching on the ice, letting the icy bits melt on her tongue. She watches Mike the Barman finish his coffee and wash the cup. He has hairy arms, Mike. I bet his chest is hairy too, Bertha thinks. Muscular and hairy. Bertha assumes he has a routine. He wakes up in the morning in his house, tells whatever girl is in bed next to him that he has to go to work. He waits while she dresses, promises he’ll call her, walks her out. Then he does push-ups, goes for a run. After that he takes a cold shower, shaves his face, runs a comb through his dark hair. He inspects himself in the mirror to make sure he’s properly gorgeous. Bertha imagines what it must be like to have dinner with Mike the Barman. Do you ever think about me, Mike? Have you ever thought, if just for a fleeting moment, what it would be like to take me home?

A young blonde stumbles over to the bar, carrying an overstuffed suitcase that seems on the verge of splitting open. She sets it down and smiles at Mike wearily. Mike looks impressed. “Quiet a load,” he says.

The girl nods. “I’m flying back from Armenia,” she explains. “I didn’t know what to expect of the country, so I guess I over-packed a little.”

Mike nods sympathetically. “I see. What would you like?”

“Um.” The girl thinks a little. “I don’t know, actually. It’s too early for a beer, huh.”

Mike grins. “It’s never too early for a beer.”

The girl smiles back. “Ok, then. I’ll have a Stella.”

“Good choice.” He goes to fill up a glass.

Bertha shakes her head at the young woman. “It is too early for a beer, don’t you think?” she says.

The girl appears befuddled. “Huh?”

“You should have a bloody mary,” says Bertha. “That’s what they drink in the mornings, isn’t it?”

“Uh, I guess so.” The girl gives Bertha a smile, not a well-meaning smile, more of a smirk, and then Mike the Barman comes back.

“So,” he says, putting the beer down on the bar, “you’re stuck here on the way home?”

The girl nods and pouts a little.

“Well, you’re in luck. This is the best damn airport to be stuck at. I kid you not, you won’t wanna leave.”

The girl laughs.

He’s telling you the truth, Bertha thinks, taking the last sip of her icy water. You’re not going to leave. You’re going to wake up tomorrow with Mike the Barman.

Bertha sits there for a while longer, watching him flirt with the young woman. They’re going to exchange numbers, they’re going to have dinner, they’re going to make love all night. With each passing moment Bertha feels something wither inside of her, like she’s fading bit by bit, organ by organ. Going to Laos won’t change a thing, she realizes. Because I will make the most amazing trip plain and boring. Because I will be alone, pounded by tropical rain, and there will be no elephants or Indochinese tigers.

Because I will eventually come back.

Bertha finds her cart emptied, and it puzzles her.

Linens, towels, shampoo bottles and disposable toothbrushes – all gone. The cart stands there in the corner of the closet, naked and embarrassed. She approaches it slowly, sits down next to it. After a while she gets back up and pushes the empty cart out into the hallway.

Suite 35. She stands in front of the door, trying to imagine what she will find once she goes inside. Will it be a prostitute, a pimp, a farmer, a trapeze artist, a scientist on the brink of a major discovery? Oh, suite 35, open up and reveal to me the identity of your mystery occupant! Leaving her empty cart in the hallway, Bertha steps into the suite and scopes the area.

A man, without doubt, stayed in this room. The TV is on, flickering porn. Curtains drawn, the pixilated light illuminates the room in dirty blues and whites. How careless of him, Bertha thinks, walking into the living room. He could have turned it off –

“Holy shit! What the fuck –”

She gasps, instantly realizing that the man is still in the room, lying in bed in fact, naked. Well, he was; now he’s angrily pulling on a pair of jeans, yelling at her (“Why are you still here? Get out of here, you crazy bitch! What are you doing?”). Step by step, Bertha backs out of the room and into the hallway, grabs her empty cart and hastily wheels it away from suite 35. She hears the door slam shut violently behind her.

Heart pounding, Bertha spots Trevia walking out of suite 38 with several bundled-up towels in her arms. A stupefied expression spreads across Trevia’s face.

“Oh my God,” Bertha exclaims, wheeling the cart up to her. “I just…” She takes a deep breath, realizing she’s been holding it in. “I just walked into this guy-“ She points back at the room.

“Bertha?” Trevia interrupts. She appears bewildered. “Why are you here?” Her eyes go down to Bertha’s empty cart. “I mean, I just thought…”

Bertha shakes her head. “I know – it’s strange, right?” she says. “That’s how I found it this morning.” She shrugs. “Whatever. If there is one thing I got used to over the years, it’s practical jokes. My husband used to play them on me all the time – little ones, now and then.”

It’s true: Henry would switch their dinner plates when she wasn’t looking; he would frighten her when she walked out of the bathroom; he would lay sprawled on the carpet, pretending to be dead, and she would get scared stiff and very mad. He had a twisted, immature sense of humor, and it annoyed her, but now misses it dearly.

“Bertha, I don’t think…” Trevia looks back up into Bertha’s eyes, and then quickly looks away.

She seems awfully ill at ease, Bertha thinks. I hope she’s feeling okay, the baby and all. “You all right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Trevia says quietly. “Listen, I have to go.”

“Okay.” Bertha watches Trevia push her cart away, then looks at her own, confused. Am I supposed to be on this floor? she wonders. Is it my shift even?

That was a close call, she thinks instead, carrying on down the hallway. The man was there all by himself, in his own little world of drawn curtains and pornographic movies, and I completely invaded it. He will think about this humiliating experience for the rest of today, and then maybe tomorrow too, but the day after his thoughts will become diluted, now and then springing back to that horrifying moment, and then, in three days or so, he will draw the curtains again, and settle back comfortably in front of the TV. Bertha chuckles as she pauses by a door – suite 41 – with the sign PLEASE CLEAN UP MY ROOM dangling from its knob.

The elevator dings. An elderly couple gets out and slowly walks down the hallway, past Bertha. They hold each other supportively, and they don’t say a word, having exhausted every possible subject and now content with a tranquil, subdued silence. Bertha sighs pensively, affected by the couple’s transcendent aura.

She hears voices, and then Trevia comes out the stairway, followed by their boss, who is wearing a suit so purple it stings Bertha’s eyes.

Reflexively, Bertha pushes the door open, goes inside, lets it shut.

The room smells terrible; the stench hits her like a brick. My God, did something die in here? she thinks. It’s like rotten eggs, decayed flesh, burnt plastic. The doorknob twists; not much time to ponder. She goes into the bathroom, turns the light on.

Ooh, I see.

The door opens and her boss strides in. She looks irate, about to say something, but then her expression distorts into that of repulsion. “Ugh,” she stammers. “What is that awful smell?”

Bertha points at the toilet. “Vomit,” she explains. “Didn’t flush.”

Momentarily distracted, her boss moves towards the toilet warily, peeks inside. “Ugh,” she says again and shakes her head. “That is just revolting.”

Bertha flushes the toilet. “I’ll clean this up, no problem,” she says, watching the vomit spin spin spin and then get sucked away. “You didn’t have to come up for this.”

Her boss seems to snap back to reality; she stares at Bertha vehemently. “No, Bertha, you’re the one who didn’t have to come up,” she says, searching through the pockets of her acidic purple pants. “I thought we discussed this yesterday.” She pulls out a packet of nicotine gum, pops one out and into her mouth. “Well?” she says expectantly, gnawing crushing grinding the gum with her teeth. It stands no chance, Bertha thinks of the gum. It has teeth coming at it from all directions, mashing it up until its flavor, like life, begins to fade away, and eventually it’s spat out, to be leveled with asphalt.

“Well?”

Bertha sees Trevia in the doorway, biting her lower lip. Behind her, the hallway light flickers.

Fingers snap in front of Bertha’s face. “Hello?” her boss yells. “Anybody there? Is this some sort of a joke? I mean,” she motions in the direction of Bertha’s cart, “can’t you see it’s empty? Huh?”

Bertha feels her pulse quicken, and the hairs on the back of her neck prick up a little.

“Haven’t you wondered why it’s empty?” her boss continues, her voice shifting a pitch higher. “I mean, even if for some inexplicable reason – and damn if I know what it could be, short of you being absolutely mad – you decided to neglect everything I told you yesterday, the empty cart provides a clue, no? Is this blatant disregard, or are you crazy, Bertha? Answer me.”

Bertha darts a quick look in the bathroom mirror, sees her own somber face; the expression on it frightens her. “You can’t ask me that,” she says softly, watching her reflection mouth the words. “Crazy people don’t know if they’re crazy.”

“What?” Her boss grimaces, tilts her head forward. “I can’t hear you.”

A crowd of people walks by the suite, rowdily discussing a football game. The elevator makes a ding, and then their voices fade.

Her boss stands there, neck stretched out, face contorted, waiting to hear from Bertha.

“Why can’t we just open the damn windows,” Bertha says then, and determinedly walks out of the bathroom. “It smells so bad. I’m used to the smell, mind you, but in this particular case an open window would do a whole lot of good.”

She approaches the windows; an airplane has almost landed, its wheels connecting with the runway. She watches it zoom past, and then turns, to see her boss and Trevia exchanging nervous looks.

“What?” Bertha says, heart racing. “You don’t agree? You don’t agree it would be much nicer with the windows open?”

Her boss clears her throat. “Bertha,” she stammers, then pauses, at a loss of words. Then: “Bertha, I think we need to go downstairs, huh? Let someone else clean this room. I think you just may need a break.”

“No.” Bertha steps behind the curtains, her sanctuary. She peeks out. “Why can’t we just open those windows?” she says.

“Oh Jesus,” she hears Trevia mumble under her breath.

“Don’t feel sorry for me!” Bertha shouts at her across the room. “You’re in this too, Trevia. Doesn’t it get to you – the windows?” She makes loud sniffing noises to accentuate her point. “It stinks in here! You,” she points at her boss, “don’t have to deal with it, but we,” and she gestures towards Trevia and herself, “we deal with it all the time.”

“All right, that’s enough.” Her boss takes a couple of uncertain steps forward. “Bertha, you’re going to come with me downstairs now, have a nice cold drink, and then you’re going to go home and take a –“

“No!” Bertha yells. “No! First you open those windows, you bitch, open those windows!”

I’m out of control, she thinks. My whole body is shaking. I haven’t felt like this in such a long time.

Her boss appears stunned – she even stopped chewing. “Bertha, I’m going to have to call security if you don’t come with me this-“

Trevia gasps in the hallway, as Bertha steps out from behind the curtain, picks up the desk-chair (it should feel heavy but it doesn’t, it feels light as a dust particle), and slams it, full throttle, against the window. It connects with a dull thud, seemingly with no result, but upon closer examination, to Bertha’s surprise, the impact has indeed produced a visible if insignificant crack. She glances over at her boss. “A couple more should do it,” she says, and winks, lips trembling.

“Bertha-“ her boss croaks, but before she can finish, the chair goes flying into the window again; the crack webs out a little, and Bertha smiles triumphantly, feeling strong, influential. She does it again. And again. The chair-legs quiver in her hands from the impacts; the crack is now a good four, maybe five inches wide, and quite deep.

“We’re going to fix this problem, aren’t we?” she says, lowering the chair for a moment. She takes a breather, wipes sweaty hair away from her face. “No more Pine Nut, fucking,” she laughs, “artificial air, it’s nothing like real air. It might give off the impression of real air, but it’s not, is it? Someone made this air in a factory from a number of chemicals, bottled it up, and here, spray it, spray it so it smells nice, spray to conceal the true…”

At this point Bertha realizes she is alone in the room; Trevia and her boss are no longer there. Bertha rubs her eyes, hesitates. I’m so tired, she thinks. That bed looks awfully tempting. Soft pillows, soft soft blankets. What would it feel like, to be a guest at this hotel, to sleep in those beds, shower in those showers, order room service, watch porn and airplanes?

Not that great, she decides. Not with the windows closed.

By the time security comes rushing, with her boss leading the way, Bertha has managed to do significant damage to the window-glass: it’s entirely covered with thin cracks and jagged fractures. A small audience has gathered outside the suite; it stands, observing the demented maid smashing hotel windows, too cautious to intervene.

Security personnel tries to pull Bertha away – they take the chair from her, they grab her – but she’s more stubborn and stronger than any of them could have expected. With a potent shove she breaks away, snatches the chair and slams it against the window one last time. It shatters noisily, a thousand thousand glass sprinkles catching the sun, and it is the most beautiful thing Bertha has ever heard, the shatter of a crystal rainfall. They seize her and pull her away to the roar of airplane engines, to the stink of fuel and life.

The neighbor doesn’t murmur that night.

Bertha waits and waits, but there’s nothing. No shuffling, no creaking mattress springs, no murmur. Just Bertha.

She replays scenes from today over and over in her head, trying to keep them limited to only positive ones – her uneventful lunch, saying hi to the neighbor’s dog, buying the new book by her favorite author – but Bertha’s mind perpetually wonders back to the look Mike the Barman gave her when he saw her being escorted through the lobby by security men. He looked like he was about to say something, perhaps to intervene, but the girl with the overstuffed luggage (was she Armenian?) distracted him with that sexy smile of hers. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, right… Maybe Mike the Barman would have stepped up, told those mean security guys off; maybe Mike the Barman would have rescued Bertha, like a knight in shining armor, if only it were not for the Armenian bitch and her sexy smiles.

Bertha wants her thoughts to stop, but there is no murmur. So she lies there. Thinking.

A commotion outside her apartment wakes Bertha up from fevered dreams.

It is early morning now, can’t be later than 5 am judging by the pallid light of autumn sunrise. There are voices in the hallway, hushed and somber, accompanied by the sounds of furniture moving and doors opening. Bertha gets up and walks to the front door, peeks out through the eyehole. A man in a white robe stands almost directly in front of Bertha, blocking her view, but then he moves, and she sees more men, more white robes. Her neighbor’s apartment door is open, and even before they come out carrying a petite (so small! she thinks bemusedly) covered-up body on a stretcher, Bertha knows the truth.

This is my last chance, she thinks, watching them discuss heatedly whether or not the body could fit in the elevator. I can find out who it really was, she thinks, as they proceed down the stairs, out of sight.

She could run after them, ask them for a name, a past, a story that’s real, but instead she walks to her empty fridge and stares vacantly at the shriveled up lettuce in the veggies compartment. We are very sad, you and I, she thinks. And you’re lettuce.

Together they enjoy the deathlike silence.

It is cold as winter, and about to storm.

Bertha is jittery. She sits on her kitchen stool under the yellow phone, rubbing her damp hands together, studying the cabinets. They are polished, sparkling, and so is the linoleum floor. She had all day after all. The living room, the bathroom, the kitchen and the tiny hallway – all washed, rubbed, dusted, and vacuumed. Now Bertha has nothing to busy herself with but anticipation. She is nervous, because she hasn’t done what she is about to do since she was just a little kid and didn’t know any better.

The doorbell rings, making her jump and almost fall off the stool. Finally! she thinks. Took a while. On the way an anxious shudder comes over Bertha, and she practically collapses, but then regains control, opens the door.

He stands there, handsome as a film star, short dark hair, and tanned. He wears glasses; his eyes light up behind them when he sees her. “Bertha!” he exclaims. “There you are. Just as I remember you.”

“You too,” she says, inspecting his bronze, almost copper-colored suit. Then she blushes. “To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous. This is new to me, all this…”

Mr. Dark shakes his head, smiling reassuringly, and extends his hand. “You ready?” he asks.

Bertha nods, accepts his hand, follows him out of the apartment, out of the building, outside. As they walk together they chat about his job, and how his girlfriend dumped him, and how he’s trying to quit the marijuana habit, and Bertha finds herself feeling lighter with each passing second, as if burdensome weight were gradually being lifted off her shoulders. She should feel cold but she doesn’t, warmed by the company of Mr. Dark and the organic smells of pine-trees and nuts.

They stroll past the muddy duck pond, and through the woods, listening to the chime of wildlife.

“Soon,” Mr. Dark says, pointing ahead, “there will be a clearing. This is where we’ll meet up with the rest.”

“The rest?”

Before long the construction crane appears, all serrated metal with chipped yellow paint, a mechanical brute protruding into the sky. It looks a lot different from down here, the crane. From Bertha’s window it looked out of place, a man-made cyst blemishing the olive landscape. However, from down here it looms over the forest majestically, as if substantiating itself as the true king amongst all trees; it is both intimidating and oddly reassuring.

Underneath the crane Bertha sees people, a dozen of them, maybe more, mingling and chatting. She glances at Mr. Dark, who looks back at her with an empathetic smile.

“It’s your crowd,” he says. Bertha feels a few icy drops graze her forehead; tiny dark spots begin to stain Mr. Dark’s copper suit. “They’re your people,” he urges, ignoring the commencing drizzle. “Go talk to them.”

Bertha hesitates. “I’m not sure,” she says, squinting at the crowd. “Who are they?”

Mr. Dark says nothing, so she takes a few tentative steps towards the crane, then looks back at him one last time. He’s sitting on a tree stump, sucking on his apple, blowing out smoke so thin it’s almost translucent. Thank you, Mr. Dark, she thinks, and maybe she mouths it to him, because he gives her a wink and gestures for her to go on. With acquired confidence Bertha proceeds towards the clearing.

Angel and Leslie come into view first: red hats, dimples, and wide see-through umbrellas. They run over to Bertha and greet her affectionately – they barely made it from the photo-shoot. As she talks to Angel, as she jokes around with Leslie, the rest of the crowd lines up under the crane, all familiar faces, all so excited to meet Bertha at last. Despite the obscuring rain coming down rather forcefully now, Bertha recognizes the sailor from several (two? three?) years ago, and his robust uniformed torso; she makes out the female tap-dancer, and damn she looks beautiful in that cylinder hat and polished black shoes; oh, and there’s the little girl in the crowd who left her stuffed bunny in suite 76, and who had terrible terrible parents, and whom Bertha wanted to adopt. The little girl grins toothlessly at Bertha beneath long auburn hair, wet and matted to her face, and Bertha hopes that maybe she is a bit happier now, out here in the forest with her.

The rain pauses for an instant, threatening to return with a vengeance.

They gather around Bertha, and they converse and laugh, and some of them even brought beer and ceasar salads. They could go on forever, sharing this delightful moment, but there is something that Bertha wants to do, and they all know that. She doesn’t have to say anything; telepathically they can read each little notion that pops into her head, and, like one, they all lie down on the damp grassy soil, facing the sky. They stretch out their hands, touching each others’ fingertips, and they wait as the clouds swell up overhead. Bertha feels soft skin brush hers, and she doesn’t dare look, her eyes tearing up with salt and joy.

“Everyone’s here,” she whispers, staring at the quivering sky above her. “I brought them here, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did, Bertie,” he says, his voice so familiar, as if he never left her.

“And they’re here,” Bertha says, and sighs, deeply, contentedly. “They’re all here. For me.”

She feels a warm hand cup over hers.

“You can feel proud,” he says, “because, after all, life’s about insignificant personal fulfillments and enjoying small victories.”

And Bertha happily agrees.