I’m the only staff at the library. Two janitors arrive nightly in matching designs. One is from Warsaw. One claims Durango. They take photos before and after every shift. They hold hands when they can. In the mop closet, they offer me cigarettes in Cyrillic. They offer me licorice and spinach. I stomp along to their songs, laughing like disturbed, distracted gods.
In the mop closet, the janitor from Warsaw is old. Poland, she says. Poland. On her lunch break, she lets me cut her hair. Poland, I say. My family, I say. Poland. I don’t change my shirt. Poland, she says. The lightbulb above us flickers and dies and brightens agains. Almost all of her hair is gone. I’ll clean, she says. She laughs. We laugh. The puddle on the floor is my last name.
In the mop closet, the janitor from Durango is loud. He has me wrap him in gauze. Gauze he found in the ceiling tile above our heads. Above, he points. Up. I wrap him in the gauze until the gauze is gone and he is gone and in my hand is a diamond the size of a die. The janitor from Durango doesn’t see. He’s looking at the wrap of his legs. He’s smiling, he’s saying something. The door won’t open. The door does not open. We water the lightbulb. We’re alive. We’re alive.