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Nobody's Business The telegram arrived and no one was there to read it. The hens shooed themselves from the porch, softly, with tentative pleas for rainwater. Inside, the house stiffened, halted in mid-flight. On its nail an apron flapped, then froze. And in the hallway, slippers fidgeted, then stood dazed like questionable theatrical props on the stairs. A suitcase wiped its brow: so this is the last stop and no one is here to meet me. The journey was withdrawn at the last minute: the footbridge ached now, felt sticky all over. The station was deserted, and a sweetness like medicine sculpted the air with numb monosyllables. Spacious recesses tried imitating a troupe of mimes, but it was not fair to the exits: they clustered in a private booth and shakily came to this conclusion: resources would have to be pooled for the purchase of a kitten, surely a marginal concession to the concentration of this new displeasure. And so, piercing the cold interior, she came like money into an early morning poker game. Tousled the shaky ego of the home. She was the inevitable passenger who, within days, shriveled into an uncanny submission, found an alcove in the world and merged with the unhealthy halting rhythm. 186 A child with his birthday telescope has observed all this. He tells no one, it is hobody's business. But nothing is forgotten. Clad only in fluid intervals, he is untouchable, mincing toward that housewarming that is surely his. ...

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