Dear Wigleaf,
I'm writing to you from Donald Trump, which turned out to be cheaper, this time of year, than Costa Rica, so I changed my original plans. My lodgings smell of Paul Mitchell products and are not unpleasantly moist. Overall, it's more than I expected for what I paid (thanks Priceline!) and, as it turns out, a really nice, relaxing way to see the city.
There are others here who are not as happy as I. They won't talk to me when I pass them in the darker, older hallways in the south wing and they keep me awake all night with their hollow moans. I try to be polite, but I am just about to raise a stink with management. I don't want to sound ungrateful—the food is amazing and the package, all-inclusive—but there's something to be said for basic courtesy, for the kindnesses that are the glue of our fragile human community. They bare their teeth at me from the miasmic corners of this grand old place and I can see very clearly through the gloom that they are not smiling.


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Read SM's story, "The Last Night They Spent Together Before the Separation."

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