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Dog years

He's seven, or "seven and a quarter!", as he says himself. Nice boy, polite if sulky. Dark hair and sharp blue eyes. Kind of looks like... never mind. He was taking his shots today and is really afraid of needles, his mom says, but it turns out they are not so scary for a man like him, he insists. You agree. You have some more hauling to do before meeting the rest of the neighbours. 

She's more than ten. You don't know what comes after ten yet, but you'll learn next week. She's weird. You know all girls except your mom are disgusting, but she doesn't look that gross to you. Maybe girls stop being gross when they go to fifth grade and get married? 

He's eight. His parents are going through a messy divorce, and it's really rubbing off on him. Kids always innately feel like they're the fault of their parents' troubles.  You ask him for his index fingers, then shove them into a Chinese finger trap. He spends a solid three minutes trying to pull them apart before realizing that they're so easy to separate when they're pulled together. You tell him that's sort of what love life is. He doesn't understand and goes back into the house. You are not sure where you were going with that metaphor either. When you first tried a Chinese finger trap, you just tore it apart. You were a special kid. He is, too, in other ways. He does not realize it yet.

She is twenty five today. Your mom had some business away, so she told you to stay at her house the whole day. There are so many people, all of them adults. They are all really annoying, kind of like how your aunts are, they all want to grab your cheeks or ruffle your hair or something. She snatches you out of the crowd and asks if you want to play videogames. You have a few games on your phone, but she sits you down in front of a weird and noisy TV and hands you something that looks like a RC car remote with a cord stuck out of it. It takes you some time to figure out what the buttons do — apparently they move some really simple squares on the screen, which apparently stand for a guy. She says he's called Mario and has a brother called Luigi. You want to know if you have to buy more stamina after falling down too many times, or can you just watch ads instead. She says she'll show you an entire world you missed out on, and takes a second car remote.

He's nine. You ask who did this to him, to no response. You made it clear that you don't want him being a tattletale and would just like to know why they did this. He explains that the other boys gave him crap for doing faggy shit for girls, and he didn't really get it because girls are cool. Clay sculpting class as an elective, apparently. Poor kid was the only boy in there. You can relate, you've been in this situation before, with genders reversed, and in another club. You say they didn't realize all the girls will be yours before they realize it. He says he doesn't really care because he'll marry you instead, and takes out a crude clay replica of a Famicom controller. It's even lacquered! He says he couldn't afford a wedding ring so he made this instead. He asks you to keep it until then. He says it's a promise. You tell him that you will only marry a strong husband who will protect his woman, and offer to show him something. But first, some cardio.

She is twenty-six and it's the first time she has ever lost to you in Mario Kart. Her laughter is infectious. She doesn't seem to care at all if she wins or loses, and you've been trying so hard, training for this. It's kind of insulting, really. Was it all for nothing? You don't really get it. You will never understand girls. The boys in middle school say it's a "red pill" that they don't work hard and this is "based" on something, but you don't know what and they aren't telling you. She doesn't feel like she doesn't work hard to you, actually. She plays a lot of videogames and people pay her money for it, which you suppose makes it a job, but that's not even the only job he has, and you understand why it would be tiring to play something from that summer when every boy in your class but you was obsessed with PUBG.

He is twelve. This is the first time he's seen any death at all, and it's a very awful, personal way to learn about it. His kitten ran away and got ran over by a drunk driver. The worst part, the asshole said he'll stick him with the bill 'cuz he had to wash the car after. Fucker. You know this cunt's home address, you can just- do something to him that means you will have to move again? The kid's taking this hard. You struggle to find words. Always a girl of action. What can you even say? Nothing lasts forever?

She's twenty nine and she's showing you how to disable a car alarm while you're holding two baseball bats.

He is thirteen, the shitty brat. Some of the blame lies on the architect — the bedroom windows are directly facing each other for some reason, part of it is on you. You still see him as the precocious seven-year old, so you forgot to close the blinds. Still.

She's thirty. You don't remember how old the other lady is, but you know God is real.

He's thirteen. You thought about going to his mother about this at first, but decided against it, instead confronting him when she isn't at home. He's shaking, though not crying yet. You yell at him, demand to explain what is it that he thought he was doing, and so on, and so forth. You're more angry at him than you think you were. You tell him that if you catch him peeking into yours or, for that matter, other people's windows again, he'll really pay for it. He asks if that's what the other lady was in for, and that takes the wind out of your sails, as you simultaneously blush and break into a giggle. He picks up your laughter as well, before you stop yourself, clear your throat and warn him to seriously not do it again. Technically it would be as simple as always leaving the blinds closed before showering or anything else, but you guess it was warning enough, or it will be a secret test of character if you forget to do it sometimes, or whatever, you'll figure it out.

She's thirty two. You only jokingly claim credit for her entire career: years ago she said she was sorry for running out of coop games, but you said your favorite thing was watching her play. You were entirely sincere when you said that, and you are coping with the fact that it is still true, and, moreso, that hundreds of thousands of people can sincerely say that now. Your mother thinks you're just in it for a well-paid profession to support her financially, given how much she did for you (not much, honestly, she was almost never home and you subsisted mainly on scraps of the alimony). But the honest answer was that you were going to become a computer programmer so that you could make more videogames for her to play. You say as much. It is completely ridiculous, and you definitely expected her to laugh out loud, but she does not. She asks if there's anything she can do to help.

He's sixteen. His hands are tender, almost girly. He takes great care of his fingers now, says they're very valuable to him as a work tool. Reminds you of a story you read once, though instead of hiring other boys to beat people for him, he transitioned to kickboxing and relies almost entirely on his feet to attack. This is not a viable style for street self-defense, you don't really know what he's thinking. You unclasp your bra, and that's when he ditches you and runs away, dropping the bottle of sunscreen. This kid feels hopeless sometimes.

She's thirty four. You came in part to say you're leaving, since you have been accepted — into the very same university she graduated from years ago; if she had any part in it she will never admit it. It's not actually a goodbye, and not a poignant yet delusional kind of "not actually a goodbye" — Tōdai is a fairly short train ride away, he can visit any time. Both of you have had a few rounds in you and a good chunk of birthday cake, so now you're obviously playing Mario Kart. She suggests a penalty game to make it more exciting.

He's seventeen. He'll become eighteen at midnight.

She's thirty four. You are awoken by a combination of a horrible headache, the smell of freshly-baked pastry, and her humming the Dragon Quest IV main theme. Fighting off the former and lured by the latter two, you slowly crawl into the kitchen. You're greeted by the sight of her wagging her tail while checking something inside an oven — the tail seemed like the most polite thing to focus your gaze on, given that her clothes didn't hide much of anything. And by clothes you meant apron. 

"So." you start.

"Good morning, and yes~ we~ have~"

"What now?"

"Now you take responsibility, my dear! Or art thou willing to declare thyself forsworn?" She put on a Dark Souls-esque voice for this one but broke character and giggled. "Here." She closes the oven door, runs to her bedroom and comes back with a small box. "You promised." Inside it is the shitty clay NES gamepad you made as a kid. All those years?

"No, that's not what I meant. How do I- When w- Are we going to be public about it?"

"Why not?"

"Look, I love you, but... we're sixteen years apart. What will people think?"

"Sixteen years is nothing if you convert it to dog years. And I love you too. The coronets are going to be ready in about ten minutes, can you think of a way to kill some time?"

Her lips taste faintly of chocolate.

Pasted: May 25, 2021, 10:52:06 pm
Views: 136