On the sidewalk sits a television. Perhaps ten or more years ago it was the pride of someone's living room, the focal point of family evenings. No doubt it has been cast out in favour of a plasma screen. It is that dark grey in front with false wooden panelling around the sides and the rear projecting outward toward the curb. The cord dangles into the gutter like some discarded leash. At any other time of year it would be soaked and mud splattered already, but the only damage so far is the light August dust that seem to settle on anything that stays still for more than a few moments. If it wasn't so heavy I'd lug it home, restore it, keep it safe from the city dump; instead I sail right past, my mind already forgetting it, delighted with the new song escaping from the basket and dodging Mrs Pinkett's terrier who runs out to greet me.
The plasma screen sat in the corner like an unwelcome mirror. Gina tried not to look, but with it switched off the reflected mess in the room seemed so much worse than the real thing. The television should mean fantasy, looking at the lives of others, being a fly on the wall - not a poor copy of her own disorder, her own monotony. Her foot tapped rhythmically up and down, her cheeks felt tight, then almost without a conscious thought she picked up the remote to select the music channel and sat back, mind comfortably blank once more.
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