From the bed, I watched Mary screw in more light bulbs. Marina stood in the corner. The room was still too dark, so Mary dragged a floor lamp toward me. She struggled with the heavy lamp, tripped over the cord, and the whole operation hit the floor. “No problem,” Mary said, picking herself up. “Relax.”
No easy task on the butcher paper, which crinkled with every slight move in the silent room. And who knew it took an eternity for wax to get hot? When Mary started in, things were no less awkward, because the bed was too low and Mary couldn’t see, and she kept peeking out the window, and I was wondering what those other women were doing two rooms over with their doughnuts, and all this was happening on a motel bed in a Days Inn, and it’d been half an hour since anyone uttered a word. Crinkle, crinkle . . .
Marina’s turn went by in a blur, after which we both hightailed it out of there.
“Sorry, babies,” Mary said, smiling. “Next time better.”
Back home, we took a good look at each other. It was like looking in a mirror: All four eyebrows were crooked. We never heard from Mary again. And we still wonder about those girls in the other room, with their cake and doughnuts. Maybe they were next in line.