“Honey, get me the frying pan down,” Sharon says.
“I’ll be right in,” Guy says.
The spigot squeaks. The hose stops spraying water. The screen door closes. Pots bang. One pan slams onto an electric stove burner. The stove clicks, one, two, three times.
“Get me a few tomatoes from the garden,” she says.
If Guy sees me caught in the garden fence he’ll kill me.
“Don’t you get sick of those tomatoes?” he says. “I can’t bear to eat another one.”
The hot pan zishes. The mouth-watering smell of browning meat wafts out of the window.
I never get sick of those tomatoes.
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