The Distant Wound
The pot was boiling over again. I stood in the kitchen, the heat radiating off the stove in waves that made the air shimmer, and I watched the white foam spill onto the black enamel surface. It looked like snow, or maybe like the ash from a fire that had burned too hot and too long. I did not move. I just watched it spread, a slow, creeping tide of milk that stained the counter and threatened...
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