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Pore to Floor by Virginia Butler

EVERY NIGHT, the dining room chairs go unused.  I prefer to eat perched up on the countertops with my toes dangling a few feet from the cool-borderline-cold ceramic tile of the kitchen floor. By eat I of course mean drink, because the dinner of the last few nights has consisted of whatever bottle of wine I find above the fridge, sitting enticingly higher than my roost, begging to be plucked and sucked and drunk.
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