The Distant Affair
The smell of yeast and rotting apple hung heavy in the air of the processing plant, a thick, sweet fog that seemed to settle into the pores of my skin, refusing to wash off even after I scrubbed with lye soap until my hands were raw and red. I stood before the great copper vats, the heat radiating from them like a physical weight, pressing against my chest, my stomach, the hollow spaces of my...
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