I saw you downtown the other day. You were bending at the fruit seller’s spread of apples. That man, I remember, used to sell Frooty bottles in summer. Those tiny bottles that come with funny mango illustrations. You would buy me one of those every Friday, and laugh at my childish glee as I took swigs from it. I succeeded once in making you have some, that too, because you were very thirsty.
I didn’t feel the need to pretend to like Breezer, or even soft aerated drinks before you. You knew I was a little kid who loved her mango juice, who loved smoothies, who probably lost her bib somewhere. And I was ok with that. You towered over me in all your intimidating glory, holding my hand and steering me while crossing roads. I was ok with that too. But I wasn’t ok with the way you kicked at speeding cars, pretending to cross the road while the light was still green. I would snap at you every time that happened. It had become routine.
I didn’t feel the need to pretend to like Breezer, or even soft aerated drinks before you. You knew I was a little kid who loved her mango juice, who loved smoothies, who probably lost her bib somewhere. And I was ok with that. You towered over me in all your intimidating glory, holding my hand and steering me while crossing roads. I was ok with that too. But I wasn’t ok with the way you kicked at speeding cars, pretending to cross the road while the light was still green. I would snap at you every time that happened. It had become routine.