The Golden Song
The phone was ringing in my pocket, a violent, buzzing thing that shook against my thigh like a trapped bird, but I did not answer it. I was standing in the center of the open-plan office, the fluorescent lights humming their low, sickly drone above us, and I was holding the ceramic teapot. It was a plain, white thing, unglazed on the inside, chipped at the handle where I had dropped it three...
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