The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Madeleine Thien Reads Yoko Ogawa

The New Yorker: Fiction

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The Cafeteria

The first thing that struck me was the smell it was heavy and suffocating, like nothing i'd ever smelled before. The women who worked in the cafetier were fat, and their flesh bulged from the elastic cuffs of their uniforms and the tops of their boots. They seemed buoyant, as if they would float when tossed into water. These images floated up in the cafeteria window. At about the same time another thing happened to me. I stopped being able to eat. But why? There were probably a lot of reasons, my various complexes, my timid personality, my family, lots of things. But the direct cause was the cafeteria. So we're there at last,

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