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Short Story: Stone Soup

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knowing that in time he would understand, he always did, and he refused to worry about it.
What he was going to do, since he was standing in front of his favorite restaurant, was indulge himself in a plate of raw oysters in Michael's special wine sauce: a delicacy he heralded around the world, which unassumingly held forty-third place on the menu as – Stone Soup (which he never understood, either).
As usual, everyone in the civilized world had decided there was no other restaurant on earth; there wasn't as far as Steve was concerned – just standing outside it was easy to smell why; but finding a table was never a problem. Steve was like family; he spent enough there to qualify as a major stockholder.
When LeAnn, Michael's lovely bride …show more content…

"You get better looking each time I see ya'. Where's that good-for-nothing husband of yours?"
"In the doghouse, as usual, but I let him out long enough to feed the starving."
When Steve put her down, she took him by the hand and led him back to the kitchen to say hello to Michael, as she readied a table. When he and Michael were through ‘chewing the fat’, Steve’s favorite dish was waiting for him at his favorite table: near the back, in the corner, by the bar.
After stuffing himself for more than an hour, Steve forgot about taking a spin in the country and headed for the health club to lose himself in a few sets of tennis, which he'd cap off with a massage. It was a great way to relax, one that always worked; but as the day advanced, he became acutely aware that for some reason it was not working today. He asked himself why, but when the question yielded no reply, he put it aside (as best he could) and tried to salvage what was left of …show more content…

Resigning himself to this, Steve unwrapped the last layer of twisted sheets, swung his legs off the bed, raked his fingers through the dark tangles of his hair, and pulled himself to his feet. Without turning on the lights, he made his way through the shadows to the bathroom where he splashed water in his face. After finding his sweats, he pulled them on and was off for his early (although not usually this early) morning jog through the murky Dallas streets.
As he left the apartment and made his way up the hall to the elevators at the opposite end, he tried not to think about the dream that seemed determined to be thought of; but as if from a buried memory that had forcefully unearthed itself from the shallow grave of his subconscious mind, speaking without intending to speak, he heard himself say, "Who was

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