The Distant Blade
The coffee is cold. You drink it anyway. It tastes like rust and burnt sugar. You are in the kitchen of the house you bought with the money from the divorce. The tiles are cracked. You step over them. You have always stepped over them. The pot is on the stove. It is an old pot. Aluminum. Dented. The bottom is warped from years of heat. You hold it. Your hands shake. Not from the cold. From the...
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