The overriding cheese fumes create memories of times gas farming in low country. The projectionist can imagine herself as a girl, just ten, swinging her arms through tall grass and stomping her feet in the marsh. Her mother would call her intermittently when there was food to spoil or just to check she hadn’t stomped too far. There was a danger in childhood of alligators big enough to swallow boys much older than she was. Her mother worried about them too, but not as much as how dirty her daughter would make herself.
In the projection booth, her partner takes cheese with his finger as if applying ointment to a cut and smears it on a bread slice for lack of a knife.
“I made this bread for you only. It is my love.”
It tastes of his sweat.
“Have some more.”
The projectionist smiles and eats more than she wants. Soon she is full to bloat and can only smell him, his spirit intoxicating her numb from cheese odours, cigarette smoke and fart smells.
In the end it is the eyes that remain the same as she notices his hair, just as lovely as she remembers it.