The milk trembled in her hand.
"You purchased organic milk?! Dammit! You NEVER purchase organic milk, NEVER!" His voice broke over her like rain.
He put his foot on the petal; she fumbled for her seatbelt. Her throat was hurting, suddenly, and she was tempted to ask for a swig of milk, to feel the moisture tickle her forked aveola.
She knew it was forked, because the doctor had explained how there was some connection between her tongue and the murmur in her heart.
"I don't know how to love, because I have a hole in my heart", is how she had explained it to her best friend on the playground. They had cried, and hugged beneath the slide. Years later, they would sit on her bedroom floor, and she would find herself aroused at the touch of his feet against her thigh.
"Have you ever seen organic milk in our house? EVER?" His voice was rotten, like curdled milk. The pain in her throat grew stronger.
"Out of curiosity - if I had a child, do you think I would expose them to a grandfather who would scream at them for buying organic milk?"
The car stopped. "We're here. So I'll see you later, right? I love you."
She did not answer as she slammed the door.
The milk had cost three-twenty-nine.
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