Custard. 133

There was a silence that permeated the air. As thick as that perfect custard. That custard perfection enshrouding a piece of the purest of homemade apple pies. Straight out of the old gas oven on a Sunday evening in winter at Aunt Agnes’ house in Fitzroy. Its smell so sickly sweet and delicious, wafting there, throughout the dank corridors of her quaint little post colonial character house. That sat there patiently on its last legs, waiting for you all to finally fuck off and abandon it. The magic pie smell momentarily masking the overbearing air of mothballs that always smothered you upon entering.. past the antique cabinet.. alongside the impressive collection of pressed flowers and potpourri mixtures that were arranged meticulously on handcrafted doilies.. that the ladies at the local church group made during craft classes on Tuesday afternoons ..and later sold at the local fete along with assorted fruit preserves in little glass jars sporting flannel hats.
(inhale)
But you weren’t at Agnes’ house.. you were in the silence.. next to the telecommunication towers before the buzzing started again. Beautiful that. That silence…

“attn please.. this building will be closing in 5 minutes.. all services will cease at 8pm. kindly make your way to the exits”

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