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“Sweetheart,
“Sweetheart,”
She smiles at him, but there’s no warmth in it. Only a warning. “Men,” she says, “are always so baffled by women’s clothing. So many opinions about a body that does not belong to them. Cover up, don’t cover up”—she waves a hand—“no one can seem to decide.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Well,” I say. “Thank you for being annoying.” “Hey.” He frowns. He gets to his feet, dusts off his pants. “I’m not annoying.” “You most certainly are annoying,” I tell him. “Especially for a child your size. Why haven’t you have learned to be quieter by now? When I was your age I only spoke when I was spoken to.” James crosses his arms. “Wait a second—what do you mean, for a child my size? What’s wrong with my size?” I squint at him. “How old are you? Nine?” “I’m about to turn eleven!” “You’re very small for eleven.” And then he punches me. Hard. In the thigh. “Owwwwwww,” he cries,
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“Sweetheart,”
“Please go directly to hell.”
“Sweetheart,”
“Sweetheart,
