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84 At Reno Airport A wide-shouldered guard greets me and I quickly greet her back, move on because I’m from the Middle East and you just never know. But the white-blue uniform follows, watches me order a sandwich, sit in a corner with my book. Hell, I think, damn my thick eyebrows. She’s on to me. I carry tweezers and those pluckers are sharp, can be held against the delicate white throat of a flight attendant for an extra bag of peanuts or a can of diet coke. The guard approaches and I almost choke on my BLT, trying to remember in which pocket of my bag I have tossed the deadly weapon. I was at your reading last night, she says so loud the passengers around, nervous until now, turn their heads to look at my face. You write sad things, but also funny. Loved the poem about your brother at the Canadian border. I bought two books, gave one to my friend. Her smile is a row of perfect melon seeds. 85 She thanks me for coming to Reno, snow and slot machines, then brings her wide face close, whispers: I have to go now. I’m supposed to take things away from people. It’s my job. She giggles and suddenly she is not as she was before. Just a girl. The man at the next table walks to the counter, picks up paper napkins, and I watch him because I need some too. On his way back he lays a few on my table, nods, goes back to his hamburger, coke and fries. ...

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