Walking deeper inside the church, he inhales as long as he can. He smells marriages, baptisms, funerals. Incense and bouquets. Beginnings and endings. He wants bacon. The architecture is gothic on a budget, with red carpet, a powder blue ceiling, dark wooden pews, stained glass, and a tabernacle that kindles Moses’s nostalgia for monarchies. An organ looms in the upper wing like a bouncer, and he feels the crawl of surveillance, as he often does; he scratches his skin.
