He thinks I’m cute. I think he’s wearing rose-colored glasses.

He thinks that because of the way that I look and sound, I get away with a lot. I think that because of the way that I look and sound, no one takes me seriously.

Case in point: he compares me to a doll. A doll. Tiny Tears with the “rock-a-bye eyes”—to be specific—because I fall asleep soon after I lie down.

“I don’t,” I say.

“You do,” he counters. “You lie down, and your eyelids get heavy. Then you go right to sleep. It’s really cute.”

“I don’t, and it’s not. I am not a doll.”

“You do, and it is. You’re Tiny Tears.”

I pout in silence for a moment, and then to be contrary (as much as to change the subject), I tell him, “What about Betsy Wetsy then?”

“Oh, God,” he says. “Betsy Wetsy. You’re supposed to feed her water from a bottle, and she tinkles.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Those who were really sick and perverted would feed her lemonade.”

I frown. “Lemonade?”

“Ohhhhhhhhh yeah.”

And then I get it: yellow water, kind of pulpy. I make a face. “Oh, that’s just wrong,” I say in disgust. “That’s so wrong.”

“I know,” he says.

“I mean,” I continue, “come on… lemonade? That’s just not right.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I’m on a roll, and he’s taking me seriously for once so I’m speaking in earnest by now. “Now, see? Lemonade’s no good—”

“I know, dear—”

“If it were me, I’d be using apple juice.”

“…”
“…”

I suddenly realize there’s only silence on his end, so I look over at him. His eyes are closed, head shaking side to side in a negative gesture, and there’s a look on his face that looks like it might be a smile or a grimace of pain. Then I spot his shoulders shaking…

…in mirth.

“Come on,” I tell him. “Don’t you think apple juice would be perfect? It’s the right color, and there’s no pulp.”

He finally bursts into laughter, and I look at him like he’s crazy. He’s laughing over apple juice… and Betsy Wetsy. He’s laughing his head off because of something I said.

“You see?” I tell him, pouting. “You never take me seriously.”

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