The Wistful Dinner
The ink moves. You watch it crawl across the page, defying the gravity of the paper, forming a shape that looks terribly like your own face. It is midnight in the Alcestis Hotel, a crumbling modernist shell of glass and rotting wood in Chicago, and you are thirty-four years old, out of money, and terrified. You need to finish this chapter by morning to pay the rent, to keep the room, to keep...
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