It was a tomato, complete with fat legs and a sweaty face. Tommy, that talented little twerp, had written ‘See Mrs. Jansen––the living Hot Tomato lady––at the circus.’ There wasn’t time to call his folks; she needed to get to the store.
Two hours later, after she’d hung her new, larger, elastic-waist pants in the closet, she was wishing for a third hand. The comb kept falling into the sink, and the gilded cocoa hair color was dripping into her ears.
“Why can’t you just age gracefully?”
Her husband admitted later that he deserved the elbow to the ribs.