Monday, April 7, 2014


They give you two key cards in the envelope although you only need one.

You text me the number on the envelope.

I knock on the door and know what to expect.

The color scheme will be peach walls and teal carpet.
There will be bad art that gets less bad every year but is never good.
A bedside lamp that turns on with the twist or the push of a narrow golden knob.
A mini fridge somewhere in the proximity of the dresser.
Air-conditioning vents beneath a big window that looks out, every time, onto nothing interesting.

(Except for one time: a man-made pond, and some geese, and a post-sunset sky whose deep blue you couldn’t name, but I said “Cobalt” and wanted to buy you a crayon in that color so you would have it always.)

Polished mahogany surfaces for wallets, keys, receipts, parking stubs.

ell phones set to silent so the spouses go to voicemail.

Blackout shades, thick curtains.
Your iPod plugged into a speaker playing songs you carefully selected.

Turned-down white sheets on the infinite bed.
Rough, ultra-sanitized towels in an assortment of sizes, for after.