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A Hotel

I am a hotel. A Best Western, Holiday Inn, something along those lines. The kind of place with bed skirts that match the drapes. The kind of place where the perpetual buzzing of the vacancy sign shines onto the blacktop parking lot. The kind of place where you can rest your weary head; you’re always welcome to get a good night’s sleep. The kind of place with duvet covers. There are weekly, monthly, yearly rates but we will never, ever speak of the price. It will just be understood. You can treat me like your temporary home. You can unpack your suitcases and life into the empty dressers and closets. You can drowsily sway to the music of the jazz quartet playing in the cocktail lounge. You can kick up your feet, swim in the pool, get fat off of the bacon, eggs, sausage of the continental breakfast. Do not be surprised when I start missing you even before your check-out at noon. The smile of the concierge service will never fade. But I know you will be gone soon enough.




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ALM007This teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Oct. 22, 2011 at 12:29 am:
I love it; it's so assuringly devoted despite the fact the writer knows the reader is only a temporary guest. You can feel how the writer is offering the ultimate place of hospitable refuge, away from the world, no strings attached, just do what you feel but take refuge in me.
 
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