When her husband told her they were moving to the country so he could assume the mantle of a provincial governmental official, she had dipped into their meager savings to buy shoes from a polished department store, a last defiant memento of the city she had grown up in.
“Well, it’s not poison. It would just taste bitter.”
First was the site of her fall, in front of the stall of the fruit seller who had given her the golden apples, the sweetest and crispest she had ever had.
People assume that women want to learn about cooking as much as men want to learn about war.
Thank you, Stephanie. You might consider reading more slowly, your story is too good to rush through.
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