Creature mother referred to as benevolent to salvage his miscarried stride, brother said his wingëd arms were ordnance and that was the workings of a good man (rather a tool I suggested), father thought his wide ego was equitable, a trait lacking in most boys, and I thought they felt like the hands of someone who grappled with your body in pool water, the exception to “pool boy” was that you had every right to elbow them hard in the windpipe, you close-lined his smirk with the same forearm that you used to cradle your niece, your arm was stuck to your hip bone -- by now you’d supposed it hard as cement and requiring the effects of a jackhammer, all night you underwent the pain and once the adults getted and got together the world came to a closing -- you got a slap to the spine indicating “job well done”. But. For this irritatingly foolish“pool boy” you faked flustered when he botched his cries with a surprised expression and you never got in trouble -- it was an accident, and their mothers needed them to learn anyways; for their interest in curves was now only game for the land sharks and you ruled the riptides. You made it clear that if you couldn't take a bruised lip then you should learn to drown in other places, and his webbed chest soaked up the minty fresh breath that your throat excreted when you dealt to the devil a hard “no”, and got back humor, and you both with your red skin, each burning the other amidst many. short. touches. Decided you had no choice but to laugh.
