Ole
The moment her head broke the surface of the blissful water of consciousness, Mandy knew there would be no bullfights today. Her aching bones are crushed under her faded quilt and her head sizzles like a hot air balloon impaled in a blazing Spanish sky. “Get up, Mandy. I’m not phoning in again,” her husband, Bruce, says. Again? For him, she phones, and pleads, kisses ass, and irons shirts but when, once a year, she pleads from her deathbed for a favor, all she gets is a whine. “What if I were unconscious or impaled by a bull?” “You’re not unconscious; you have...
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