The Wistful Dinner
The rain hits the windshield in a steady, gray sheet. You are driving. The road is wet. It reflects the headlights. The beams cut through the mist. They find nothing. Just the gray. Just the dark. The wipers slap. Left. Right. Left. Right. A metronome. A heartbeat. Your hands grip the wheel. Your knuckles are white. They are bare. The skin is thin. It is worn. You look at them. You see the...
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