her name is maria

Her name is Maria, of course, and she walks with a slight limp, now. She’s a housekeeper at the hotel – a maid. She’s in her late 30s and much of her youthful beauty is beginning to fade. She was captivatingly gorgeous in her 20s – dark eyes; black hair; thin, angular face. She even had a mystery about her. Most girls – women – that age don’t, of course. What they’ve got is what you see. It’s all part of the plan. But not her. Not hers. She always held something back, inside, deep down. But that’s gone, now, and she knows it. She’s not sure who took it – him? Them? Life? What’s replaced it is a resolute, some might say requisite sorrow. It’s in her eyes. You see it clearly, if you look closely enough. It’s in her smile, too, though she thinks she hides it with that. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, about what’s gone, because what’s the use? Everyone loses something, don’t they? She just ended up losing her joy. She’s in Room 129, now, cleaning the toilet so she has enough money to buy toilet cleaning goods for her own home, where she will head in a few hours to clean one more toilet. She understands the redundancy, but doesn’t question it, at least not anymore. Tonight, after dinner and the dishes, she will make love to her most recent Johnny and wait for that moment when he will turn her away and then pull her close and hold her for just a moment. He won’t, of course. He never does. They never do. Still, she will hold her breath and wait. She always does.