The Distant Affair
"You wore it to the wedding. Remember?" You laugh. The sound is dry, like leaves skittering over pavement. It is not your laugh. It is the laugh of the city, of the rain that has soaked through the wool of your coat for three days. You are in the attic. The air smells of dust and old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of the storm outside. It is not your laugh. You look down at your hands. They...
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