Fiction | June 01, 1992

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The morning is thick enough to stir with a spoon.  The tower of waffles is cold in a puddle of congealed syrup, mark on her collarbone, which she taps distractedly with a pencil.  Replying to her students’ journals occupies hours of her weekend.  “Look here,” I say.  “they think the universe might have arisen out of pure nothing.” From the newspaper I read:

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