The butcher block blade rested on top of the plastic cake cover. Boston cream pie was the dish that rested below the hard dome. Coffee was brewing in the next room, aromas of hazelnut mixed with roasted java filled the air. It was almost six o’clock.
Music from the past floated softly through the dinner room. Jazz played on an old organ was the easiest way to describe the sound. In the distance, the clang of a cup against a coffee pot interrupted the elderly tune. It was now six o’clock.
A deck of cards being shuffled slowly was barely noticed. Mumbling about jokers, suits and chips could be deciphered, for those that cared. Old people doing old things in old time was all that was happening today. It was five minutes after six o’clock.
Hunger was instantly in my throat. Odors of coffee, pie, old people and something indistinct was all around me. Warmth of an open oven was pushing smells of onions, meat, cheese and more all in the house. Yearning for food is increasing by the moment. It was ten minutes after six o’clock.
OH NO, there it is, escape is rarely achieved. A long wooden handle with a rectangle face full of spikes is an unfriendly way to negotiate the time. It moves quickly, sometimes side to side and sometimes like a stabbing motion. I have to get out but I will be back. It was fifteen minutes after six o’clock and being a cat getting chased out of the house by a broom for trying to get something to eat is a hard life to live.