Back, I rise to the whistle of escaping steam. Boiling droplets spray my hand as I pour and I curse, my preoccupation broken for a moment. Carrying the cup back to the couch, I stop at the window, the deserted street reflecting the way I feel. I sit and stare past the commericial, the smiling model an alien to me. Finally the phone is singing. I grab the receiver before it is through: No, I do not wish to renew my subscription and indeed, there is a need to cry.
2007-03-14
15:59:28
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5 answers
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asked by
Anonymous