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INTERLUDE

She notices a stain on the sofa’s upholstery. Someone tried to rub it out with water, but it’s only gotten worse. The stain has spread into the fibers, making an even bigger, diffuse spot. Bernardo probably dropped some fruit, and fruit is the worst; it won’t come out, not even with that pink stain remover. Now that remote. Where did it go this time? As usual it’s not where it’s supposed to be— it’s underneath the sofa, and it’s turned the shade of mango. Up and down, she clicks through over a hundred channels: a telenovela, a talk show, a kiddie cooking contest with Chef Mirim? She zaps ahead, pausing on a show about mammals on the brink of extinction. Documentaries: that’s what should get wiped off the face of the Earth. The recycling truck is coming around the corner. It sounds as if it’s right in front of the building. There’s some movement. A melody is playing from the truck’s speakers. It’s not Beethoven, but instead some dirge she doesn’t recognize. She closes her eyes, but the darkness doesn’t shut out the noise. It’s a crime that someone can take a note like “re” — a simple “re” — and turn it into something so unbearable. The internet cuts out. It isn’t worth trying yet another internet provider. The old one was expensive, but at least she didn’t need to have the call center on speed dial. She calls and calls. A man with an accent from an imaginary place says to disconnect and reconnect the modem from the wall. She gives up on the internet and opens the fridge. She shuts the door then opens it again, and now that she’s paying attention, she gets a slice of ham — which isn’t enough — so she makes a second

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Profile for cusoa

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

Profile for cusoa