“What’s in your pocketbook, lady?” she asked innocently of course, being a child and all. No malice or subterfuge involved.
“Oh. Just grown up stuff, darling. You’ll know soon enough.”
“12? I’m 12 now. Will I know (*sniff*) this year?” She wiped her nose of a little bit of snot produced in a sneeze several minutes back now. Must be the flowers, Dafney thought, but in actuality it was her perfume, grown up stuff intruding on more delicate nostrils.
“Oh, maybe not.” Dafney then took in her companion in the moment better. She sat up on her tiny pretend vehicle a little straighter to seem taller, older. She wanted to hear that she would know this year. Dafney obviously relented, seeing that sweet face, those saucer eyes.
“Yes, yes I see it now.” She rubbed the top of her head playfully. “Maturity. Yes I think you’ll know this year.”
“Hurrah!” the kid cried and, happy with the exchange, moved herself and her little piggy car or whatever down to the next available person, interacting with them about what *they* were doing in the moment. It was Sunday and Sandy was at the park. This is what she did. Her mother was just over there, observing. But otherwise letting Sandy do her thing. She had a break and that’s what was important for her. Sundays, blessed Sundays, when she could temporarily pass her loquacious kid onto others.
Dafney pulled out her phone, dialed the numbers that would get her in contact with Redbird, her current flame. Unless it was Bluebird. Heck, she’ll give them both a call/text. But first — a banana. Yellow before red and blue she always said. She hardly ever thinks of green and how that fits into the overall picture. The 4th. She’s not a true Tilist… and she’s grown up, which might mean she’ll never be.
Sunklands 