The Pale Meridian
The crack in your left wrist is a jagged white line under the skin, a fracture you refuse to set. You hold it in your lap, the bone grinding against itself with every keystroke, as you type the final actuarial table for the Meridian policy. It is Friday, and the promotion is a tangible thing, a heavy gold weight in your pocket, waiting to be lifted. You want it. You want it with a hunger that...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa