The Distant Joke
The leather of your spine is the same color as the oak table, worn to a soft, fibrous gray by decades of thumbs and elbows, and when you run your hand down its length now, you feel the topography of every argument you have ever had, every verdict you have ever passed, etched into the grain. You are sitting in the high-backed chair at the head of the long table, and the room is closed, the heavy...
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