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October 1, 2006
I could start by writing about the Kentucky hotel maids as they wait for me to emerge from my room. We do this every day. There he goes, they say. No, look, he is back again. They will give up and come make up the room while I am still here. Negotiating at the door, we agree that they can do their work while I write behind the dump of sheets, the spill of the coffee pot in the bathroom, and the spatters of Spanish, while I continue to type, and while we pretend to be unaware of each another.