Housekeeping morning shift was rather brutal. Thirteen rooms, five people, and five hours? Not so good.
Our lunch table was silent from exhaustion and other maladies. G. from the Dominican Republic was feeling ill, trying to find something to calm his churning stomach. O. from Russia was enjoying her breaking-fast meal. I was miserable, suffering a tension headache, feeling guilty over the way work had gone thus far, and certain R. from Colombia was furious with me for slacking. And R., across from me, seemed either angry or intent on his food.
From under my eyelashes, I watched them all. G. was eating slowly, his head bowed, uncharacteristically cheerless over the food. He didn't meet my eyes. O. acknowledged my glance, but was too busy to talk. R. put an olive in his mouth, searching for the pit. His dark eyes met mine as he removed the pit with a finger and thumb. I dropped my eyes again, using my fork to scrape up my rice.
"How are you feeling?"
"What?" I glanced up, startled. R. ate another olive, removing the pit and lining it up with the others on the edge of his plate, and repeated his question.
"How are you feeling? About your last week . . . your last day of work?"
Without my consent, my lips turned up, twitching with laughter. R.'s mouth matched my smile.
"What are you laughing about?" he asked. I shook my head.
"That was such an abrupt question," I told him, taking the time to explain the word "abrupt" to answer the question I saw in his raised eyebrows. And then I answered his query.
"I don't really feel like I'm leaving yet. Or like I'm going home. I'm not excited to say goodbye. I don't think it will really hit me until Wednesday, when we come back from the volunteers' trip and I really have to start saying my goodbyes." I paused for a moment. "But I am," I added, "excited that today is my last day of work."
He grinned at me, eyes showing his total understanding, and I smiled back at him.
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