The Faded Apartment
Your fingers are stained with the black grease of the hydraulic press, the oil working into the whorls of your fingerprints until they are indistinguishable from the smudge. You are forty years old, and your knees ache with a dull, persistent throb that has nothing to do with the cold concrete of the sub-basement and everything to do with the fact that you have been standing in the same spot...
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