The Wistful Dinner
The pen in your hand is a Pilot G2, 0.7mm, black ink, and it is trembling not from cold but from the specific, mechanical strain of holding a line straight across a spreadsheet cell that contains a discrepancy of four million dollars. The office is a box of white noise and fluorescent hum, the kind of sterile silence that presses against the eardrums like deep water, and the only color in the...
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