Being Yours
She’s gone to the restroom.
'Sing, Daddy,’ said Amanda, but he shook his head. She didn’t know what she was asking. When he sang, everyone else left. He sounded like an maladjusted foghorn with no mute button. ‘Sing,’ she insisted, so he compromised by humming, which seemed to satisfy her. She gave him a bright blue-eyed, sunny smile, and sang merrily about ants marching six by six, hurrah, hurrah, though everyone else was singing something about a little rabbit that apparently beat up on field mice by bopping them on the head. And he’d been reading that learning about violent behavior encouraged it in children.
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