He remembers her monthly visits. The careless kiss left on his cheek at the end of each visit, and the look of disgust barely suppressed in her eyes. As far as she was concerned she had no son, just a stranger and an awkward charade.
He didn’t want her to hug him, to pat his head and to kiss his cheeks as though she loved him. He didn’t want it. He didn’t dare want it.
‘Who is she?’
He hated the boy who asked too many questions.
‘Why does she kiss you?”
He hated the boy who asked questions he didn’t have the answers to.
‘Why does she look as though she’s terrified?’
He hated the boy who asked questions he wished he didn’t have the answers to.
He hated how the boy stretched his neck and planted a careful kiss, replacing the filmy trace of her.
“I don’t know why she doesn’t like it. You taste like pop-rocks to me.”