Common as Caviar
Trying to go back to envision my past life was like trying to walk on a slippery surface. You had the illusion of movement, but couldn’t make any real headway. The hotel elevator was almost always filled with Georgian men who stared at my cowboy boots and asked me for my room number. I knew that everything that went on in that hotel, everything that was said and done was being observed by some invisible eye hiding behind a mirror or a double wall.