The Faded Quadrant
The coffee was black. It was hot. It tasted like burnt copper. I held the mug with both hands. The ceramic was thick. It was chipped on the rim. I traced the chip with my thumb. I felt the rough edge. It cut my skin slightly. A tiny bead of blood welled up. I did not wipe it away. The room was small. It was a closet office. The walls were panelled in dark oak. The air was stale. It smelled of...
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