The Wistful Incense
The brass button was already loose, the thread fraying like a nerve exposed to the cold air of the assembly line, and you held it between your thumb and forefinger with a delicacy that felt, in the context of the roaring machinery, like a holy sacrament performed in a slaughterhouse. You were not supposed to be here, not in the upper management galleries that smelled of beeswax and stale cigar...
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