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138 still​liFe A​sunny​afternoon;​think​of​Vermeer. Here​is​the​apple,​here​the​rounding​side of​the​blue​pitcher.​On​the​scrubbed​wood​just​here, she​puts​the​pitcher​down,​so​that​the​slide of​drops​against​its​lip​catches​what​light there​is​for​pitchers​here​this​afternoon. She​does​not​really​see​the​drops,​or​quite attend​the​blue.​A​common​thing.​But​soon the​tide​will​turn,​and​salty​smells​will​rise to​circle​in​the​street,​and​to​her​ears will​come​the​voices.​Then​doorways​to​her​eyes, then​other​days​than​this—afternoons,​years. She​will​stop​to​hold​this​moment​near, and​drop​the​pitcher,​and​betray​Vermeer. ...

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