The Pale Dance
The ink in the pen had begun to dry, forming a black crust in the nib, but I did not look up from the ledger. My finger traced the line of figures, counting the cents, the tens, the hundreds, until the numbers blurred into a gray smear. It was 1912, and the Ministry of Internal Revenue smelled of damp wool and old paper. I wanted the promotion. I wanted the corner office with the window that...
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