Whatcha Gonna Do?

“Oh, he was ‘evil,’ (1) you say?  Tell me more,” she said with a glint in her eye.  “I just love bad boys!”

And while she sat there picturing a misunderstood rebel with haunting eyes to fill her nights with passion then break her heart, I tried, without success at first, to explain I was talking about a man to break her ribs, then laugh at her while she bled.  In the end, it took my spelling out that on top of all his other repulsive traits, every one of his daughters seemed to feel the need to leave the house once they came of a certain age (but still far too young to leave home), and never looked back.

That finally triggered the light of comprehension in her eyes, and she finally stopped asking me to tell her more about this particular “bad boy.”

Better a lesson learned late than never, I suppose.

(1) A word I do not use casually, by the way.


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