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Indigo Void

She took my locker key to record the financial arrangement, then led me by the hand down a narrow corridor, past a warren of small rooms redolent with a mélange of perfume, sweat and disinfectant. I was like a little kid, touching the grass cloth wallpaper, poking my head into empty rooms, smiling sheepishly as I squeezed past women escorting their men friends to or from beautiful nowhere. Our little corner of paradise turned out to be just big enough for a queen-size bed, a sink, and a mahogany nightstand ornamented with cigarette burns and a bowl of condoms.

— Michael James

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