She grabbed some green bananas. “There are seven, the seven shall ripen.”
I laughed, “Sounds biblical.”
“You’ll see,” she seethed.
And so I did when their skins turned red and seven banana-sized angels burst forth, summoning clouds of tiny locusts that flew over rivers of blood pouring off our kitchen-counter. Now Sinners and Saints alike beg my wife for mercy; I just want her to make the angels clean our kitchen.
Eric Sentell
