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Gilles Sandon hugged a leg to hionizingly slowly With each pass his hand crept further up until finally he’d run out of leg

‘You’re so soil’

‘Who’re you talking to?’

Odile slulass and Gilles’s workrooer into wine and sed it, but lately it hadn’t worked so well

Gilles looked up, startled, as though caught in a hu and private act The worn piece of fine sandpaper fluttered to the floor He could smell the wine Five o’clock Maybe it wasn’t that bad Most people have a drink or two at five After all, there was the fine Québécois tradition of the ‘cinq à sept’

‘I was talking to the leg,’ he said, and for the first time the words sounded ridiculous

‘Isn’t that sort of a silly thing to do?’

He looked at the leg, destined to be part of a fine table It had honestly never before occurred to him it was silly He wasn’t a stupid ured that was their proble on another poe for an answer Odile rolled off the door jareat care to the front counter of their store She returned with her notebook

‘Listen

‘How prone is piebaldmuch,

To strew his rosy path with thorn,

And rusty nails, yea, plenty such

‘Wait’ She fell against the doorway as he turned his back ‘There’s ’