Today I was sitting at a table in the garden at The Flamingo, intent on writing, when something poked me hard in the back. I yelled, “Oh!” and jumped a foot. My heart stopped.
When i came out of shock, I wondered what or who had poked me. The only people who know me are the staff, who usually call me by name rather than assaulting my person.
I turned around slowly.
The unsmiling culprit was a boy between 18 and 24 months old. He lives here with his mother.
He didn’t seem that happy or triumphant, so I decided to ignore him. I turned my back on him and went back to writing.
A few moments later, carefully timed so that I should have returned to complacency, the finger jabbed me again.
I turned around.
He still wasn’t smiling. He was, however, drooling.
I have that effect on males.
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