The Landlady – P.K. Page

Through sepia air the boarders come and go, impersonal as trains. Pass silently the craving silence swallowing her speech; click doors like shutters on her camera eye.   Because of her their lives become exact: their entrances and exits are designed; phone calls are cryptic. Oh, her ticklish ears advance and fall back stunned.   Nothing is unprepared. They hold the walls about them as they weep or laugh. Each face is dialled to zero publicly. She peers stippled with curious flesh;   pads on the patient landing like a pulse, unlocks their keyholes with the wire of sight, searches…

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