The Wistful Dinner
"Are you sure it’s just the wind?" Margaret did not look up from the plate of cold roast beef. She kept her eyes on the grain of the wood table, on the dark stain that looked like a map of a country she had never visited. The window behind her was open to the city night. The air smelled of wet asphalt and distant coal smoke, a thick, industrial scent that clung to the back of the throat. "I...
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