The Distant Metropolis
The ink on the ledger page was still wet when I noticed the black bead forming on the underside of the oak desk, a viscous drop that defied gravity as it swelled, dark and glistening against the pale wood. I wiped it away with a rag that smelled of turpentine and old sweat, the motion habitual, the way one brushes away a cobweb or a fly, though the substance did not smear but retracted, pulling...
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