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The pot slipped. It was the glass one, the one with the chipped lip, and it went over on the chrome counter at ten past five in the morning and sent a sheet of hot coffee sliding toward an old man’s hands. The old man did not move his hands. The waitress did. Her arm came up over her face before the coffee even reached the edge, fast, the way a hand goes up when it already knows what is coming.
The pot slipped. It was the glass one, the one with the chipped lip, and it went over on the chrome counter at ten past...
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