Across the street there is a pie cooling on a windowsill. It smells of berries. The red kinds. Before too long I’ll have to close my window, because I can’t have that kind of temptation in my life. Lydia, who baked the pie, ought to know better than this. May lightning take her, or the whirlwind. Seduction comes in many forms, and the seduced may bemoan our devils who make us do it, but we know what we are, and we are weak, and hungry. David peering from his roof saw a pie on a windowsill once. Not even God could stop him sneaking a taste. I am much more obscure, with few conquests to my name. How can I refuse the scent? How can I resist?


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