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For Whom the Good Tolls

A Hemingwayesque micro saga
(with apologies to 'Papa' Hemingway)

In a clean, well-lighted place out of the rain, the man and woman drank wine. The wine was good.

They ate the testicles of a young bull that had bravely faced death in the afternoon. Both were good.

Back in their room, he went to her breasts. Her breasts were there, and good.

"You were good," she said.

"De nada," he said, and left. It had been good.

They met no more.

Each died alone--in the rain.

It was a good rain, except on the mountain where snow fell on a frozen leopard. It was also good, and dead.

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