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63 What the Kitchen Was An even exchange: love for Vidalia onions, a faucet with the gleam of a pheasant’s tail, a movement up and down the music of steam, the extremes of ant hungers and the blackened toast left on linoleum. Fair trade. Again the window spiked with the mouths of rain deepens her reflection. If she had been someone else—someone named Eustacia. With a name like that she could meet strangers on a train, perhaps dance on stiletto heels with chromium tips, become a storm in a red dress. If she were a red dress. If she were a train. If the hum of the refrigerator were an etude played on a white piano . . . If she were a white window from years ago . . . ...

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