The Wistful Atlas
The room smelled of stale coffee and expensive cologne. We were all there. The annual gala. The chandeliers blazed. They cut the air like hot knives. I stood by the bar. My glass was empty. I didn’t want a drink. I wanted to leave. Margaret sat at the head table. She wore red. A deep, arterial red. Her hair was pulled back tight. It exposed the long, elegant line of her neck. I looked at her. I...
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