Louise Krug
The night before, you had to be on top of things. You had to take the form that was hanging off the outside doorknob and fill it out. You could use one of the little golf pencils they put in the bedside drawer. Coffee, tea, or juice? Eggs? Huevos rancheros all the way. Cereal: five different kinds. There were these tiny boxes next to each choice and you had to make a check mark, like when you vote or admit guilt to a parking ticket. Of course, a whole omelet category.
Then, when you were done, you had to re-hang the thing on the door before you went to sleep. In the middle of the night, some room-service angel would come by and take it. In the morning, at 7:30 a.m. the time you had put in the little write-in space for them to arrive, there would be a knock on the door. We always chose 7:30 a.m. A fast-moving waiter would set up a really nice card table that he had carried in. He would shake out a stiff pink tablecloth with one hand, bring out the chrome-covered dishes and the glasses of milk sealed in plastic wrap. He would arrange everything while we would stand by and watch. For some reason, we never had the fresh fruit platter. We should have.
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Louise Krug has been published in elimae and Glossolalia. She is a PhD student at the University of Kansas in Creative Writing.
