Things might have turned out differently if the twins had known how freezing temperatures affect bananas. They had planned their escape carefully, pilfering bus fare over several days so the lighter wallets would be less noticeable, and sneaking the forgotten Army sleeping bags out to the shed for warmth until darkness fell. The packed-away provisions, too, had been thoroughly considered—chocolate for energy and fruit for good nutrition. But when D-day finally arrived, the twins found the baker's chocolate bitter and the bananas black and inedible-looking. Their stomachs grumbled uncomfortably. The runaways went back inside for Mommy's meatloaf and potatoes.

Christine Otto Hirshland loves frozen bananas, especially in blender drinks with little umbrellas. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, daughter and big brown dog.

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      I find her at that same table, her hands still stained, still busy with a Virginia Slim and a vodka tonic. Twenty years. The sharp twist in my chest says yesterday. Lord, how we'd laughed, everything a joke to her, even stuff that wasn't funny—angry, desperate stuff steeped in youth and alcohol.
      She sees me, gives the same wide smile that once owned me.
      I catch myself. No. Not this time. But I cross the room anyway. Her arms open up. Something in me weeps, something long-buried and scared, heart flung desperate. I go to her, hungry for home.

Greta's short fiction has been published in Long Story Short, Tuesday Shorts, Word Riot and Six Sentences. Her flash fiction story, "The Burning Black," has been accepted for an upcoming issue of Every Day Fiction. For more about Greta's writing, please visit her at her blog, For Write or Wrong.

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