This morning, I went over to la Casa de los Sneezes to tutor Colette, Cecilia, and Marita Sneeze as well as two other children.
And then Mark Sneeze (age 7) comes flying up to me in the kitchen. "Ribs!" he cries, pointing at me. "She's got ribs."
"Umm, I need my ribs," says I. "But you can have my leg." And I stuck my left leg out.
But he kept pointing to my ribs.
"But Mark," his mother told him. "It isn't nice to eat a lady's ribs."
"Flesh!" he cries, grabbing my arm.
"Mark," his mother repeated in a warning tone.
So the little boy runs away and grabs an orange toy gun. He points it at me and then at himself while telling me that I am "under arrest for the murder of not letting me eat your ribs."
And then I walked away.