He tosses the guava right on her face, the bitter green taste starch and liquid haze. Her teeth stay collected in a dental jar, the old man comes and shakes it insistently
It makes a rattle, slosh slosh, reminds them of their youth.
The postman, his lopsided hat bouncing on his curls, his pink joyful exuberance reminds her of the sound of music. Her withered heart stirs and she asks him are you going to a war?
He says yes,
All he needs is a gun.
The old man feels like the guava knocking about in his mouth. The strange bittersweet taste has fled, leaving a starch wool aftertaste.
His wife stares at nothing from the door, outside the trees are half black with frost and darkness.
A woman walks across the street, she holds a mishapen bag. A cigarette dangles from her lip. Her boots are till her thighs.
She stops before the door, cocks her head, and opens the safety hatch of her pistol.
His wife is in firing range.
Then she shuts the door with a bang.
The bang is not of the door.
There is a bullet lodged in the wood.
The clock above the mantle piece strikes fifty times.
He counts it in his head.
His wife shuffles to her seat. He looks at the dentures. Cries.