The Pale Meridian
The chandelier above you is a constellation of crystal that has not been cleaned in three years, and it casts a fractured, jagged light across the mahogany dining table where you have arranged the last of the silver, the tarnished spoons lying in their velvet slots like the teeth of a jaw that has forgotten how to bite. You are forty-two years old, and your knees ache with a dull, persistent...
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