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ROOM 1005

A long flight of rickety, weathered steps led to a hollow wooden door with rusty numbers beckoning us into room 1005. Inside, we barely noticed the lumpy bed, faded wood paneling, and thin, tacky carpet.We could see the seashore from our tiny perch, two floors up. We easily wandered down to feel the sand between our toes. For many years we returned again and again until the burgeoning resort tore down our orange shingled eyesore, Clover Bay Lodge. Forty years later, my wife and I periodically send each other short e-mails that declare the time: 10:05. “I love you, too,” I write back from my desk.

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