Like my friend Steve, who punishes any distinguishable misconduct on my part by popping in “Apocalypse Now” and sitting on me until I concede whatever point it is he’s making, T has also taken it upon himself to inflict small tortures.
His latest foray into poking me with an imaginary stick?
He stares at the top of my head. He does it just to freak me out, and it works every time.
I look over at him, and his eyes have landed somewhere just right of the part in my hair.
“What are you –“ and I’ll reach up, pat the top of my head. I have thick, coarse hair; and it’s not unusual for me to find things in it: bugs, leaf bits, that sort of thing.
What? No, actually I’m not kidding. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, “Hold on a minute” and then proceeded to pull something out of my hair, I’d be able to afford that collection of cool hats to keep stuff out of my hair.
It took me a while to catch on to T’s game.
“What? What are you doing?” And I’ll put my hands on my head, feel around for gophers or rubber bands or something.
“Why do you do that? Why do you stare at the top of my head?”
T laughs at me. “Because it completes distracts you; and it’s funny to watch you become unhinged, you who are normally so fully hinged.”
It’s true. I am normally fully hinged.
And yet I fall for it every time. Whether it is in a bar full of people or a party at a friend’s house? No matter. I look over, he’s staring at a point somewhere on the top of my head, I reach up, frowning slightly, to feel around for what he is looking at…
And he laughs and winks at me.
He got me again.
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