A bit bruised, and quite put-out, Lucy’s ego wondered why he wouldn’t look at her. She loved looking at him. She started to poke him in the side, one, two, three little jabs all up and down his ribs. And he still didn’t look at her. Then she started to wiggle her finger up under his arm, trying to tickle him under his armpit. Even though he wiggled around, he still didn’t look at her. She started to pout, a big fake pouty lip protruding from her mouth, and made a few whining sounds as if he had hurt her feelings. The sounds elicited no response from him but a half-assed side kick in her general direction. She wondered if he really was interested in washing dishes at all, then she spun around in her chair and started playing a rhythm on the table with some silverware. Tap-da-tap tap, bud da da da, Tap-da-tap tap, bud da da da. The sky grew dark outside and the wind started to blow faster now, with a cold chill suspended on the end of the breeze. The kitchen’s window was open a crack and the brief gust caused the napkins to fly around the kitchen in an impromptu dance mid-air.
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