The Wistful Dinner
The feast was not held in a room, but in the hollow of a vast, upturned bowl of starlight, suspended in a void that smelled of ozone and old rain, and we sat at a long table carved from a single piece of driftwood that had floated across the sea for a century, my hands resting on the grain as if it were the skin of a sleeping lover, while the others—men and women whose faces were blurred by the...
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