“They'll like me; I'm the butcher.”
As if we live in a village.
As if we live in a town that has a butcher, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a haberdasher, a baker.
I am the village barber.
I am the village poet.
The little one licked his shoes and he chortled and nodded, almost smugly. “Yep, they like me.” I wanted to get down on my knees and inspect his worn black loafers for blood. Blood spatter. Blood spittle. But he kept walking and the leashed ones did not, so I lost my chance to embarrass myself in order to prove him wrong. I want to yell after him, “She licks everyone, I'll have you know!” But of course I did not. This is a friendly neighborhood and I am a friendly neighbor, even though I have never noticed the tall, greasy butcher before so perhaps he is not my neighbor, after all.