For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
“You stacked the heavy oranges right on top of the bruised ones, Arthur,” Eleanor said.
“The bottom layer will rot before tomorrow.”
I looked down at the display.
I had crushed three soft oranges under the weight of the new fruit.
Juice was leaking onto the green paper lining.
“I’ll fix the pile,” I said.
Eleanor stopped wiping the metal.
She always reached for comforting household sayings whenever she sensed trouble.
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