The Distant Affair
The cake was three feet high. It was a monolith of vanilla sponge and buttercream, standing on a pedestal in the center of the community hall. It looked like a wedding cake for a bride who had died young. Or a tombstone. You stood by the table, adjusting your apron. Your hands were trembling. Not from cold. The air was thick, humid with the scent of frying dough and stale coffee. It was the...
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