Fiction | June 01, 1992
The Big Bang and the Good House
Kit McIlroy
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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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