The Wistful Dinner
The soup was cold again. I stirred the congealed fat with a silver spoon, the metal scraping against the ceramic bowl with a sound like a fingernail on a chalkboard. It was the third time. The fourth. I lost count after the second. The broth had turned the color of old dishwater, a murky, bruised grey that matched the sky outside the tall, arched windows of the dining room. "You are doing it...
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