One second it is sitting right in the water, the next it is gone and the water is
clear. If you had blinked you would have missed it. This is the last time, the 51 st time, that you will
watch this happen. You are in the 51st bathroom of the 51st little restaurant in two and a half weeks.
You walk up to the sink, drop the plastic baggie into the trash, and wash your hands. You look into
your eyes in the mirror. This being the 51 st and final bathroom, you cannot help but think back and
remember. It was July 10 when you’d checked into the hotel, 18 days ago.
You check in just like everyone else. It is the middle of the summer so every hotel has
enormously high volumes of guests. The receptionist frowns at some magazine out of your view. She
suddenly looks up and sees you standing in front of her desk. She is confused for a moment but blinks
a few times to adjust. Her long shiny eyelashes flash noticeably, and you give her an artificial smile to
match the one she gives you. You give her your room and reservation number. You watch exasperated
parents pick up plastic pieces while their son stands with a blank Mr. Potato Head while the receptionist
types away with her long red nails. You walk to the elevator with your bag slung over your right
shoulder, the weight digging into your shoulder unbeknownst to the other travelers.
That night you wake up at 2:30am. Sharp vibrations from your pocket awaken you quickly and
nearly silently. You don your uniform. It is completely different from any outfit you would wear to
work, all black, all plain, all loose enough fitting so that you can move easily. You grab your bag. The
heavy enclosed materials sounded dull thuds—everything is carefully covered to be silent.
You walk through your door to the balcony. The scents and sounds of the ocean affect you
more than you thought they would. The slight saltiness to the air, the faint rush of the ocean, somehow
calm you a bit. Then you begin. This hotel was specifically chosen for its close balconies. You take
one more look around to make sure there is no one out on the beach, no one awake to see you, and then
you carefully hop to the other side of the railing. The black railing sends a quick chill through your
hands. It feels sticky like skin after swimming in saltwater. You crouch down, grab the sharp concrete
with your hands, and drop noiselessly to the balcony below. You step up onto the railing, and carefully
sidle around the wall that divides adjacent balconies. Then you do it again, and again, and again, until
an alarm in your room wouldn’t even reach your ears.
The very first door you tried was left unlocked. No one bothers to lock doors when they’re on
vacation, especially the sliding door to the balcony. 