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The Most The dining room is empty at the country inn. We are, for your comfort, far from the town of your friends, of mates and mistresses, and of amends. The maitre d', whose only prey we are, brings pickles, beans in vinegar and switches on the musical not even he (left to his own devices) would have listened to. My face is in the cup of my hands. You consider it. Around us a promiscuity of settings, vainness of display—like mockeries of our intentions, linens stretch untouched and white as far as I can see. The fish will be untender when it comes, but I won't have the heart to say so; we will find ourselves in other rooms, you wondering repeatedly how long my husband works. For now we make the most of our opposing faces. Waiters come and go, you settle on a suitable entree, the room grows huge, the afternoon appears, a glaring error, waste of windows. "What I hate," you say, "is public places." I look around and see uninterrupted emptiness. The wine glass fills with sun, a slow bright bomb. The mob in me sits still. 104 ...

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