I thought this was a beautiful, eloquent window on a world.
Given the fact that I probably never would have seen Whitney, the TV biopic starring Yaya DaCosta, if it hadn’t been playing in the Comfort Inn lobby, I became surprisingly invested in the story. As did the desk clerk. Every twenty minutes or so, he’d leave his perch, lean on the couch, watch.
I liked him—this clerk. Laid back. Didn’t mind that I sat there for a long time, tapping into the hotel’s warmth and wifi, or that I drank and drank coffee to stave and stave off sleep. I remember the coffee station toward the front of the room, near the TV, equipped with one of these swing-lid trash cans so trivial it felt like a frill, there for looks not function, always flooding. This clerk didn’t seem to care if I was the main contributor of drained creamer tubs and straws and doily-thick napkins used to sop…
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