Blood Oranges by GJ Hart

“It must be wonderful to be mad again?” she said, stroking his hair.
“No,” he replied, “the pain of it. It’s practically physical.”
“Do you remember the morning we drove into Nuevo Laredo. We passed that motorcyclist selling garlic. Do you remember the bulbs darling? Big as blood oranges.”
“No sorry darling, I don’t.”
“Why not?” She snapped, slapping him three times on the forehead.
“Owwwwwww,” he moaned.
“Sorry darling, but you know how I get.”

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