On Yelling

“KEN, DON’T FORGET THE TOMATOES,” Nan crowed from the kitchen. Her wet head, still partially loaded with large pink curlers, hung over the kitchen sink while she rinsed out a self-perm. “FEEL THEM TO MAKE SURE THEY’RE RIPE. KEN.”

Down the rickety steps, Pa fled for his chariot — the Chevy Luv. Nan’s love call pressed his biological accelerator…

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