The Pale Tale
The glass is bad. That is the first thing I tell you. It is not the gold, nor the setting, nor the fact that it was my father’s. It is the glass. It is a pale, milky green, thick as a thumb, and it has been chipped for thirty years. I keep it in a velvet box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not wear it. I never wear it. But I look at it. Every morning, before I put on my coat to walk to the...
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