“And the fish and the monkey lived happily ever after.” Eric closed the picture book and switched out the light, but he thought he could still feel Anna’s scowl through the darkness.
“Ever after?” she said.
“It means forever, honey. They use it
in fairytales.”
“They lived forever?” She spoke in
the voice that she used when he told her that mosquitos definitely go
to heaven, and that the ceiling fan never got dizzy. The voice that
suspected he was lying.
“How come did they live forever?”
He thought for a moment. “Well,
sweetie, literature lends you a kind of immortality, I suppose.”
Anna paused, kicking her little toes
under the covers.
“And they were always happy?”
Eric nodded. “Yup. They were great.”
“Even when they hadda eat brussel
sprouts?”
Eric nodded. They’d been trying to
get Anna to eat brussel sprouts for all six years of her existence.
“Sure. They liked brussel sprouts.”
“Even when their tummies hurt cos
they hadn’t pooped?”
Eric faltered. “I guess. I mean, they
were uncomfortable for a while, but they weren’t unhappy.”
Anna paused, presumably for dramatic
effect. “Even when the moo-tilated bodies of other fish and monkeys
came on the news? Were they still happy then, Dad?”
Eric sighed, and
wondered – for the third time that week – whether his job as a
hitman was taking a toll on the children.
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