The heat of an Indian summer day holds nothing compared to the fire in Cindy’s eyes as she blazes up to Robert like a super nova ignited inside a grease trap. “Damn it, Robert! What the hell is this?” she scorns, holding a vat of buttercream in a sickly shade of dying-grass green that is oxidizing into brown.
“Oh, did Hector finally finish it? How’d it turn out?” Robert asks.




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