Morgan Childs


Pepita Greenblatt had tennis-ball adenoids and hockey-puck kidney stones and a monstrously bad case of the you-know-whats, and her husband expected a sandwich every afternoon at two thirty, ‘And by the way Pepita, my eczema is burning,’ further requiring the application of a smelly yellow paste to the southernly regions of his padded lower back in a place only his sweetheart could reach, so Pepita did what a good wife with a bad bladder does and slopped the spread upon the site while Amos ate baloney and they watched Jane Fonda bounce around in a hi-cut leotard,

and the sticky saccharine smell of the creamy schmear brought sweet Pepita back to the soda shoppe on Euclid and Plum where she worked in a white apron and a hot-dog hat the summer she lost her maidenhood, idly tying maraschino cherries into knots with her tongue and lathering sandwich bread the color of sunblock with exactly: one part canned salmon, two parts cream cheese, one part mayonnaise, and a healthy dollop of Cool Whip

…slathering eczema salve and gazing at the TV screen, Pepita Greenblatt remembered with a little sigh how nice it was to be able eat that sort of thing and still cut a Jane-Fonda figure.

Morgan Childs is a writer and editor living in Prague, Czech Republic. 

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