"Kids, calm yourselves." The little one climbed under the table. She, with her tiny little
hands, she pushed his flipflops back onto his crusted feet that
smelled also of margaritas in wood. "Careful," she whispered to the
things, "there might be razors, or bumble bees. There might be open
flames."
The little one climbed under the table. She, with her tiny little
hands, she pushed his flipflops back onto his crusted feet that
smelled also of margaritas in wood. "Careful," she whispered to the
things, "there might be razors, or bumble bees. There might be open
flames."