The Pale Dance
The sponge is gray with dirt, and you press it hard into the grout of the floorboards, scrubbing in small, violent circles because if you stop, your hands will start to shake, and if your hands shake, the dust will settle again, and the city council’s notice of demolition, dated for the fourteenth of next month, will be the only thing left standing in the hollow room. You are twelve years old,...
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