Gregorina awoke that morning feeling stranger than usual. She’d had vivid dreams of ravaging Leonides, their local butcher, with his own meat tenderizer.
In the dream – or perhaps it would do her good to think of it as a nightmare – Leonides seemed to enjoy the beginning of his beating, but when he realized it was not an overture to a more gentle form of lovemaking, and in fact, the beginning of the end of his life, he cried out in existential anguish: “Oh no! Not with the mallet I use to prepare scaloppini, not such an ignominious and ironic end for poor Leonides!” (Clearly, Gregorina’s unconscious suspected that Leonides had taken an English degree before learning a more useful trade.)
As she dressed, Gregorina could not shake the image of the butcher’s terror, spurting blood, and excellent prices on Bavarian blutwurst.
And all day, she kept having to floss.
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