I never open the north-facing window because then sound and smell from the exhaust fan overtakes my room. From mid-afternoon on they are down there working on the menu, the specials, and the fan mouths cooking smells in and pushes them back out. Mouths in and pushes out. Beneath the other window, a slice of the parking lot offers heels on asphalt and drunken voices long after I’ve gone to bed.  They leave the restaurant below: He says, I will fucking kill you. She pulls along the pavement, scratching and scrabbling. The car doors open and shut. Muffled voices from behind steamed windows. And nothing. Sometimes I look out and see the tops of their heads but I do not recognize them. They are all a voice. One voice. They might as well be the sky.

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