(in the hallway of a hotel, a wedding party filling almost every room, but that doesn't mean there isn't any work to be done. you've been cleaning all night on minimum wage, and your back hurts. the light is dim. the clock reads 12:47 in glowing green numbers. all the occupied rooms have been silent except for the one you walk past now. you linger to hear the noise trickling out from underneath the door; an argument in hushed tones. both voices are male. your curiosity keeps you in place.)

"It's always about you, isn't it? You can't even stop to think about me, can you? I have f***ing feelings! This isn't just about you, Chris, it isn't!"

"Don't be such a f***king d***. You don't even understand the position I'm in! I'm getting married and I can't even-"

"You can't even what?"

"I can't even have sex with her without pretending I'm f***ing you!"

(a long pause.)

"....Really?"

"Yeah."

(both tones have softened. someone takes a few steps and you can hear them collapse onto the bed. the other person follows.)

"F***."

"Yeah."

"I...you're straight."

"No."

"You said you were."

"I said I was."

"What about...then why did you...?"

"You don't understand."

"I don't, but I can."

"No, you can't. You don't. Just...leave, please? Just go. I can't deal with this."

(there's a rustle of clothing against clothing and clothing against bedsheets and 'Chris' is the one to speak again, choked and broken.)

"I hate you so f***ing much."

"Don't cry..."

"I hate you."

"Shh...Shhhh...."

"I...I...."

(a long moment of nothing but sobs, interrupted by the unnamed voice.)

"I love you."

"I know."

(rustling. a moan. another. you stand outside the door for a few long moments listening to every increasingly desperate sound, before moving on. maybe you're crying a little. maybe you feel something. all you know is that you have four empty rooms left to clean, and your back really does hurt.)