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May 23, 2004
There’s a half-empty beer on the table next to a pile of books we mean to return to our friends soon, and a small, wrinkled bandage over a sore on the top of my foot that I got from my new pair of K-Mart sandals, a crumpled green headscarf in the shadow of a half-filled Nalgene water bottle. The light comes from a central ceiling lamp, and the shadows all lie with radial symmetry, facing away, towards the walls. The ceiling fan limps along steadily, and from outside, the muted tones of salsa and familial greetings, the slap of hands.