Anatopism

Rosalind shook the tablecloth out over the balcony railing. The gray cotton twisted and unfurled, an anatopic sail that caught the prehistoric prairie wind with a flourish that tested Rosalind’s grasp. She grabbed for the flailing corner and reined in the linen. In the living room she put the corners of the cloth together, making a thick neat square with just a few quick gestures. The cat padded into the room and sat cleaning its paws in the broad rectangle of sunlight from the French doors. Rosalind tucked the cloth into a basket in the corner of the dining room. The cat ignored the rough jostle of wicker on wicker, but followed Rosalind into the kitchen, where she stood before the open pantry, contemplating what she could make for dinner.

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