KremaGalaktos

1        The cutting floor is cold, but we’re all sweating.  The conveyor belt groans as it brings a new piece of product every few seconds, hanging by the bone like a macabre puppet or something at a Third World market.  It isn’t exactly music to my ears, but I’m used to it.  Likewise, moving the knife through skin and fat is about as natural as breathing by now, so I let my eyes wander to find some distraction.  It isn’t that the girl across from me with the olive skin and curly hair bound up in a hairnet is pretty, although she certainly is.  It’s the air of grace about her, something like the face on a votiv