Okay, I’m feeling better tonight than I was last night. Still feel like I’ve been through the wringer and it’s only day two of this trip. Alas…

Dolores’s coworkers never had anything bad to say about her. They really didn’t say much about her at all. She dependably handled the fourteenth floor of The Meridian since it opened five years ago. Never a complaint against her. Never late, never sick, never complained.

Her tireless work ethic hadn’t gone unnoticed. She’d been offered numerous opportunities for better assignments – “Would you like an assistant on your floor, Dolores?” “The company is opening a new property – very fancy. Would you like to work at that property?”

But she didn’t. She liked her routine. If anything, that’s the thing her coworkers couldn’t understand.

But none of that mattered to Dolores.

She punched in on Monday, October 20, changed into her uniform, re-stocked her cart and took the service elevator up to the fourteenth floor. Room 1403 was a mess – the guests clearly had too much fun and too poor aim. Dolores had pretty much seen it all, though, and while certainly a drag that early into her shift, it didn’t even make the top 50 worst rooms she’d cleaned.

Room 1410 and 1411 – adjoining rooms – were clearly ground zero for an epic bachelorette party. From the confetti cake explosion complete with icing welded to the walls, to hair extensions hither and thither and discarded false eyelashes like errant mascaraed moths these two rooms together sapped Dolores of all pep she had remaining. And that’s not even talking about how hard it was to remove the lipstick kisses on every mirror – seriously, what bulletproof material was that lipstick made of?

Dolores dragged through the reasonably clean 1412 – mostly just towels and sheets. Room 1413 was vacant, and 1414 and 1415 were likewise low-effort rooms – as if the universe had taken pity on her after the bachelorette bomb.

But when she tapped her keycard to 1416, she started grinning before the lock turned green.

As she pushed the door open, the television turned on by itself and immediately changed to Music Choice Pop Latino and the propulsive beat of “Soy Yo” by Bomba Estéreo started booming through the room.

“Ay, so that’s the mood you’re in?” she said aloud as she danced into the room, closing the door behind her.

As if in response, the rumpled bedding began rolling up itself and even the sheets released their grip on the mattress and joined the comforter on the ground. “Gracias, espooky,” she smiled as she collected the dirty linen. Casting the fresh sheets across the bed, as she tucked in the side she was on, the other side perfectly mirrored her movements with the sheets. “You’re so good, espooky!” As she vacuumed, the lights in the room pulsed to the rhythm of “Mi Swing es Tropical” as it played through the TV and Dolores danced behind the vacuum. The clean towels she’d set by the bathroom door replaced the dirty ones which helpfully gathered in a heap by the door. “Gracias otra vez, espooky,” she said again, her smile wide.

The song changed to “Mexico” by Mexican Institute of Sound, the beat infectious and undeniable. As Dolores dusted near the window, the curtains sashayed back and forth in time with the beat. “Muy bien, espooky, you’ve got rhythm.”

Just then, someone cleared their throat in the doorway.

Dolores turned; her supervisor stood in the doorway.

The curtains abruptly stopped, and the television turned off, the room falling into silence.

“Are you training someone new?” her supervisor said with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t worry,” Dolores smiled. “They’re union.”