He was reading his text.
These typo errors, he counted them again and again. Too late it has been printed.
They are like the moles on his son’s face.
* * * * *
He stood and stared at those kids pole dancing inside the MRT.
He was irritated by their shouting, crying and laughing in enclosed spaces.
The things they laughed about, the things that fascinated them, the questions they asked, their erratic attention span; the imagination, of themselves in a plane, as a car, as the superhero. Of their unreliability… their cruelty, forgiven.
“Look at the gravy stain on his t-shirt; the mucous from the nose, the saliva; the two fingers in the mouth,” he said to himself.
“Why are we ok with them peeing in the public, into the gutter, indiscreetly?”
“The terrible posture…”
He bracketed off their age, their built, their gesture, and facial expression.
Or rather, he bracketed the behaviour and gesture and expression from the age, built and facial complexion. He replaced it with an adult. Isn’t that a madman?
He came to a conclusion: children are lunatics with a licence. They are the reckless cars with number plates but a threat to our lives.
Children: Authorised Lunatics.
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