I was at a play. There was a little girl in the play. I am not entirely clear about my relationship with her. I don’t think she was my biological child, but I was clearly a guardian of some sort. Perhaps, I was her stepfather.
I think she was in the play in some ad-hoc way (not as a main character). Her Grandmother showed up, asked where she was. She was in her 80’s, cherry, blonde hair (probably artificially colored). I was hesitant to say. I knew she would disapprove. I said, “she is on stage”. “Dancing?” she replied. “No, I think she is one of the clowns.” I replied.
The Grandmother was with another man, in his 50’s, very skinny, ruddy complexion, wearing a wife-beater. He said, “she has to go to the bathroom”, talking about the little girl. “She has diabetes. Look at her cheeks, they are puffy.”
“If she were anywhere else,” I said, “I would agree, but she is on stage”.
Almost as soon as I said that, she ran up to me. She was no longer in her clown costume. She grabbed me by the hand, and said, “I need you to be my daddy”, and she pulled me across the room, and into a side-room. She was going the show me something. I was trying to think of a way to get her to go to the bathroom.
label language