I kept my eyes open and stared at him, cold, unforgiving, knowing exactly what was going on. His fingers were cold on my neck, a fingertip behind each ear, why doesn't he take me by the shoulders, and then lips, wet, cold, pressing, sliding with a trail like a slug's. Instead of going out of my mouth and into his ears, I saw my words travel in slow motion across the width of the car, meeting his advancing form half way, shattering and morphing around his outstreched fingers, helplessly fading away as the light was blocked out by his approaching, growing, monstrously inflating head. He said, we're leaving for Canada soon, this will probably be the last time you babysit for us. Back then I didn't know this was how flowers had sex. The tousled flowers looked sad and menacing in the powdery blue light of dusk, shedding yellow pollen all over my hands and making me want to sneeze. I said thank you, I will give them to mom. It was getting dark and he was giving me daisies. My body bloomed all round me like a frangrant vegetative being with a will of its own, uncontrollably spreading in a myriad steep and slippery directions. I was nervous, on the brink of a hatching I was not taught to prepare for, restive, embarrassed. We were sitting in his car, me fingering the money in my pocket, my putative income, a welcome whiff of independence, a door to adulthood.
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