Hulk

mop and also to clean it, so the water within had turned an unpleasant shade of gray. He wasn’t doing the floor any favors by running his mop over it, but that didn’t seem to matter to him.
More people were coming, and he adopted a carefully neutral, distant, and bored look as he began slathering the floor with the dirty water. Several staff members were heading in his direction, but when they saw what he was up to, they headed off down another hallway to keep clear of him.
That was exactly what he wanted. It facilitated his being able to hear the conversations he wanted to hear. Looking apathetic and nonchalant, he ran the mop across the floor as he sidled over to the lab that he knew Bruce Krenzler frequented.
“Excuse me.” The female voice so startled him that he almost dropped the mop. He stepped back, keeping his gaze lowered, as that woman—that Dr. Ross—stepped carefully around the wet areas. She had her coat on, and a shoulder bag crammed with reports and such slung over her shoulder.
The janitor kept his gaze fixedly on the floor. He grunted. He didn’t like this situation at all. She was noticing him, and it wasn’t to his advantage to be noticed. She paused a moment more, and he briefly considered beating her to death with the mop. But he decided that might be a bit of an overreaction.
A fortunate thing he came to that conclusion, too, because she then pulled open the door of the lab and stepped through. It swung shut behind her, obscuring her from view. Obscuring her, but not her voice, nor his.
His . . .
“Mine,” muttered the janitor, and he smiled, and his smile was a terrible thing to see.
There had been a little trill of warning in the back of Betty’s head when she passed the janitor—as if her subconscious had been reacting to something—but then she just assumed she was, quite properly, being cautious about slipping, and gave it no more thought.
Instead she focused her attention on Bruce, who hadn’t even heard her enter. He was working in the imaging room, and things didn’t seem to be going well.
She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. She couldn’t make up her mind about whether she should feel guilty for going out to dinner with Talbot, or feel foolish for doing so, or feel annoyed with Bruce because she’d agreed to go out with Glen mostly just to try to get some sort of damned reaction out of Bruce . . . and had, once again, failed.
She sighed inwardly, and resigned herself to the fact that things simply were what they were, and there was no use getting herself worked up about it.
“Hey,” said Betty, “I’m off.”
Bruce nodded. He barely glanced in her direction.
Her shoulders sagged. “You’re angry,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he told her. He couldn’t have been more noncommittal.
“Oh, right,” said Betty. “I forgot. You never get angry. Look, Glen may be a jerk, but you may want to think about it. More resources and equipment, less red tape.”
“Please,” Bruce told her. “I just want to stay focused. On the work. Not profits, military applications, politics. Just the work.”
There was no way for her to discern whether he was talking in general terms about the direction of his career, or whether he just wanted her to shut up and get out of the lab so he could pay exclusive attention to what he was working on. But she realized that, either way, it had absolutely nothing to do with any feelings he might have about her going to dinner with Glen Talbot—provided he had any at all. Which, if he was to be believed, he didn’t.
She sighed and muttered, “It’s stupid,” without really realizing that she was speaking loud enough for Bruce to hear her.
“What?” said Bruce, but his response was purely automatic.
“I just wish you’d show even the slightest hint of jealousy,” said Betty. Naturally he didn’t react. He likely hadn’t even heard her. Frustrated, she moved to leave, and then paused. She went over to him and stroked his hair.
“You need a haircut,” she said.
For the first time, Bruce actually focused on her. He looked at her hair clinically, as if studying a cell sample. “So do you,” he announced. Then he must have realized how somber and serious-minded he sounded, because he actually smiled. Betty smiled back.
“Good night.”
He nodded in response to her. She turned and headed for the door, and then she turned back to say something else to him.
He was already gone, deep into his own world. He probably didn’t know if she’d left or not . . .
. . . and probably didn’t care.
Shaking her head, she walked out of the imaging room, pushing through the door, taking care to do it slowly so as not to collide with the janitor.
She stopped. His back was to her, but something suddenly clicked in her mind. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts of Bruce, it would have occurred to her earlier. Addressing the custodian’s back, she asked, “Hey, um, what happened to Benny? Is he still working the night shift?”
There was a pause, a heavy exhaling of breath, as if forming the words was a vast hardship that the janitor was embarking upon solely to keep her happy. “Benny’s dead. I’m the new guy,” he said in a voice so distant that he would have rivaled Bruce Krenzler for conveying information with the purest dispassion.
The news about Benny threw her. He had seemed healthy the last time she’d encountered him, always whistling some cheerful tune or other. And just like that, he was gone? “Oh,” was all she was able to get out. Then, feeling something else should be said, she added, “Glad to meet you.”
“Same.”
She might have imagined it, but there was something in his voice that seemed faintly mocking. But she put it out of her mind as she headed out, thinking sad thoughts about Benny