Two Fridas sat beneath a sky of jagged clouds. “Aren’t we the same woman?” asked the Frida who Diego no longer desired as her blood stained her skirt. “All but for Diego’s affection,” answered the Frida who he loved. “Then he is like a child who must leave his mother,” said the first. “He will not leave me,” said the second and closed her fingers tighter around his tiny portrait. “No,” said the first. “Because it’s only his love that makes you other than me.” Then she took her twin’s hand and squeezed the clamp that kept her blood inside her heart.
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