The Wistful Dinner
The soup is cold, and you know it is cold before you even lift the spoon, because the steam has long since dissipated into the damp air of the kitchen, leaving behind a film of grease that shimmers with a sickly, iridescent hue under the single, flickering gas lamp that hangs from the ceiling like a dying eye. You are sitting at the heavy oak table in the center of the room, a table that has...
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