The Distant Joke
The paper in your hand is a receipt from a gas station in Pikeville, dated three days ago. You read it twice, checking the total against the change in your pocket, a habit from when you still had a job and a wallet that wasn’t stuffed with porcelain shards. The ink is smudged where your thumb has been sweating, the grease from the burger you didn’t eat still staining the corner. You fold it...
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