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A Short Story : A Story?

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It was very late and the living room was beginning to smell of a foul odor. A woman was sitting on a wooden stool near the east-side window, crouched. She had a rosary in her hands and kept murmuring something to herself. The man, sitting down in her chair, was waking up. He opened his eyes and wondered where he was, but he didn’t panic. Seeing the white carpet beneath him, his naked feet feeling the Afghanistan wool, he knew he was safe. Wherever he was. His lungs were waking up too, for he coughed uncontrollably for a few seconds. His cough pierced through the soft quietness of the room and caught the woman by surprise. She had thought he was dead.
“Are you well?”
The man muttered something incomprehensible.
“Are you an American?” “Yes,” he said.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Milk. Please.”
She rushed to the kitchen to get him a glass of milk and soft bread, if she could find some. As she was preparing this, the man’s eyes became fully opened. He sat in the rocking chair, not moving a muscle. He was surveying the living room, looking at the knit knacks and lighted candles and religious figurines. Directly across from him was a grandfather clock. Staring at him. Ticking away.
She came back and had a glass of milk with her in one hand and a small plate, two slices of sandwich loaf with red jelly spread on the edges, in the other.
“Here you are,” she said.
He leaned forward to take the glass and plate: “Thank you.”
“Are you well?” she asked again.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
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