A minute and a half to finely slice the meat. "Here we go, Denisa", she mused to herself. The house was empty these days. At first this new Kenopsia was welcome. Thence she grew to dislike the added spells of silence- thence Denisa would notice birds calling or faraway dogs and howls of wind. "Nice to still have my hearing".
Thence she began counting chimes from the little clock. Thence Denisa began to wait for the next chime. Perhaps it was her imagination but sometimes that old clock seemed particularly excited to share the time with her whilst other times he seemed to mope his announcement. It was as though they both felt he was reminding her of her age. Then she began to answer him.
She prepared Pastrama! A magical ritual which required as many seconds as salt crystals and grains of brown sugar; as many hours as pieces of garlic. And Denisa and the Gears turned a song as the brisket brined and marinated away.
And in this loving language of aging, birthed an exciting little Pastrama. The minute- and a half was down to it's eighty-ninth second. And there came the blade to cut the last slice of Pastrama... and there was that divine space between the eighty-ninth second and the chime. That eternal fleeting tranquil calm before her favorite sound.