The woman behind the counter unwraps a long, dense, pink cylinder and feeds it into the spinning blade of a steel and white porcelain slicer. As the machine whirs to a stop, she comes back to where I'm standing with a single, almost translucent disc of the stuff and makes to hand it to me, saying, "That's your sample slice."
"I'm sorry," I say apologetically, "I don't eat meat."
One year ago: Faith of Fall
Three years ago: Morning - Five (Do You See What I See?)
Four years ago: What They Really Think
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