The Wistful Cipher
The cake was too sweet. You know this. You taste the sugar on your tongue, thick and cloying, and you think, *this is not for me.* You push the plate away. Your hands are steady. They are always steady. That is what they say about you. *Margaret is steady. Margaret is the foundation.* You are forty-six. Your hair is gray at the temples, a silver thread through dark wool. You wear a blue dress....
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