Molly doesn’t like to play Wii Tennis with me unless she wins. If I beat her once, she chuckles. No big deal, surely I can’t keep it up. If I beat her a second time, she starts to get mad because who do I think I am anyways? Is it my house? Is it my Wii?
No. She stomps over to the freezer to get an ice pop. Did she eat any fruits or vegetables today? No. Are we allowed to eat ice pops before we eat our fruits and vegetables?
She slumps to the floor. Civil war re-enactors do this when they are pretending they’ve just been shot. With her eyes closed she turns her face up to the heavens. Doesn’t anybody see the suffering going on down here? More importantly, doesn’t anybody care?
I can’t see how this is relevant to the question of ice pops. I am thinking about the time I had to take her to get her cavities filled and afterwards she explained to me that the dentist killed all the bugs, which made her mouth numb for some reason. She does not know why it makes her lips and cheeks and tongue feel fat. She has no thoughts of needles or happy gas.
The five o’clock sun coming through the windows is lighting up dust particles. The room looks washed out, like when 1970s Brazilian film directors left the filters off their cameras. I know that she’s exhausted from her day at summer camp, but still I’m surprised when I come back in the kitchen to find her on top of the table, napping in rage. Her fingernails are tiny and painted a shocking pink, fluorescent next to her summer tan. Her head is warm. She smells like a kitten.