The Faded Apartment
The first sack of tanned sheepskin weighed forty pounds, a precise burden that settled into my shoulders like a stone dropped into a well, and by the time the third hour of daylight had burned through the tannery’s high, grimy windows, my hands were stiff with the cold and the lye, a chemical burn that ate away at the softness of my skin and left it raw and red. I was forty years old, and my...
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