This story can be found in the August 31, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.
First Line: "Louise knew by the new name on the call box that someone had moved in."
Last Line: "She leaned forward, devoted, filling her mouth with the bread as if she were kneeling at the altar of a darkened church."
I am still working on another project - I will be done soon. I am looking forward to diving deeper into fiction.
I listened to this story on SoundCloud and I was irritated by all of the identifiers (she, she, SHE), yet despite the jarring sound, I enjoyed Louise's company. I fell into a sad, hopeless kind of love with her. A blind compassion settled over me, and while I could appreciate that other characters in the piece found this woman pathetic, I could not judge her so.
The setting - the apartment - became a confidante for the alcoholic woman. It held her secrets. It held her attention. It coddled her with memories that may not be true.
A solid story.
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