The Wistful Dinner
The lark lay on the silver platter, its wings splayed in a rigid, grotesque bow, the feathers still warm from the oven’s dry heat. I held it there, the silver cold against my palms, while the grinding sensation in my left jaw pulsed in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the clock on the wall. It was a bone-deep friction, as if two pieces of gravel were being ground together inside my skull, a...
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