Each of my responses eliciting from her a moment’s pause, as if holding them up to the light, checking how they compare with what she and her friends see as cool. My ideas on how late to stay out, immediately dismissed, it’s just a generation thing, daddy. Maybe that’s because I’m from a different generation, sweetheart, just happens to be the generation making the rules about how late to stay out.
Saturday afternoon, her friends visiting. The lounge appropriated, a regular stream of young girls coming in, going out. An older sister of one leaving them to their childish chitchat, walking down the corridor, coming into the kitchen to get a drink. She and I almost bumping into each other. Our eyes crossing. A tiny jolt of electricity. Recognition by me of precocity in her. From her, a holding of my eyes for slightly too long.
Helping her get the drink, making some coffee for myself. She choosing to stay, chatting. Cutoff jeans, legs’ pink skin, slight freckles. Sleeveless top, glimpses of brassiere straps and cleavage and firm small breasts. A sexual vibrancy ringing from her, setting off answering vibrancy in me.
Impossible to do anything about it. Probably not of legal age, and regardless, she needs to develop her protective shell. Even were she willing, it would be a violation, her life will be richer sans contact with a grizzled veteran such as me. Not to mention my daughter, her boundary lines razed, her innocence also entangled.
Finishing the coffee, smiling at the older sister, walking off toward another room, okay then, see you later, have fun.
