"This is terrible and I hate you," I sigh and readjust the mask over my mouth, I dip the sponge into the bucket and mop its soppiness against the floor.
"We've formed a partnership and now you are whole heartedly part of my bad choices," he laughs and sticks his tongue out at me.
"That was terrible and you tricked me when you asked!" I protest. Echo laughs as he scrubs the sink and mirror, freeing the white ceramic of public grime. Getting stuck being partners with the person with the mentality of a child and who literally always picks the jobs that are meaningless, is great. He came to me while eating breakfast, grabbing my shoulders as I shoved a forkful of eggs in my mouth. As I sputtered and choked on my breakfast, he smiled. Beamed with a signed job request: cleaning the public bathroom in a popular club in Market District.
"I did no such thing!" he snarls.
I drop my sponge on the floor, "You snuck into my room and asked me to form a partnership in my sleep!" I resume cleaning, outside the thin bathroom door, the evening hustle of a restaurant takes full swing. The slow, succulent, seductive jazz-like music fills the air, spilling fragments of sound into the grimy bathroom Echo and I clean. The walls are dark red, crushed velvet, perhaps. They hint at seduction and sin. The floor is an even black and white pattern, that fits a classic and appealing look to the eye. It smells like old cigarettes and stale smoke. The walls are covered in white goop, something I'd rather not explain, or clean up, myself. The toilets are clogged with lipstick tubes and wrappers of latex that promise protection. The three yellow, originally white, ceramic sinks are pressed against the wall, but unsupported. They lack any safety and are bound to snap in any second.
I crawl, my hands wrapped in gloves and my costume replaced with grey scrubs. I peak
out the bathroom door, peering at the sinful guests. The club is called Masks, for obvious reasons. Most of them have their faces covered even, in opaque masks. Underneath the masks stand entire faces, waiting with lust in their tongues. All genders among the small tables in the crowd await a show prepared by sultry and regretful women. The stage is set with a glittery, velvet curtain. One girl, presumably, dressed in steampunk, stands in the far back. Her hair is cropped to her shoulders, peaking out a light blonde. Her dress is an immodest corset like dress, it laces up in the front. The dress is covered in a layer of lace, her gloves match the gaudy lace that covers her. She stands solemn, only eyes moving behind a lace mask. I think they look at me, but I am not sure. The mask covers her entire face, only making room for her eyes and mouth. Her pink tongue slips out as she makes her gaze to the stage, waiting for something to appear. When I think of Masks, I think of a dirty game of hide-n-seek, worse than the game Lily and I used to play. We played hide-n-seek a lot, more than usual. It served as a purpose to flee from our parents, just because they scared us to death, and it made being stuck inside, not being allowed to use our powers, fun.
Another girl, a waitress, rides in between the tables with a tray full of drinks. She balances it on one hand, perfectly, but her poor motor skills don't allow her to weave smoothly. She steers from table to table, bumping into ledges. She has a certain awkwardness about her. Her legs were twice her torso, she had a squint instead of big, bright eyes, her feminine features were mostly undeveloped. The only lady like thing about her was a long stream of sunlight kissed brown hair that flowed down her back. It hung straight, like a curtain and swished delicately every time she lost her balance. I stare at her in awe, until Echo retains my attention.
"Hey," Echo says, "We should work on getting recruits."
"Huh? But, I got Maude on the Team," I defend.
"No," he laughs and wipes the mirror, he stretches this body across the wall. His t-shirt perks up and I can't help but glance, "We can't be a Team of six or we'll never be popular and get requested good jobs. I mean unless you want this the rest of your life." He smiles like a demon and pulls a loose pair of lace panties from the edge of the mirror. He pulls it back and in his fingers and flings the underwear at me. It lands on my shoulder and I jump and swat them
off. My shoulders feel impure from the foreign underpants. I glance down at them, a squiggly mess of black and pink. Embarrassing my own inner-self, I admit that I don't know how to wear them.
