I slapped the tyke.
A day before that I had said to him to try not to show his feelings so much because most people don't care and like to see him cry so that they may call him faggot.
"Ano nang faggot?" he had asked.
"Bakla," I said.
"I’m not bakla I’m a boy," he gashed.
"That’s what people here would like you to be."
He was monkeying and kept on pulling my hair and hitting me in the ear. I slapped him. For a few seconds he didn’t move, eyes blinking and little hand suspended over the hurt part. Then he put the hand down, turned his face towards me and stuck his tongue out. "Beeeh! Indi sakit."
He danced around me and kept on chanting, "It doesn’t hurt it doesn’t hurt!"
Now, when I’d pay him a visit, he’d hold back from running to hug and grab my bag to inspect if there’s a little love tucked in there. He’d kept on jumping in his place, clapping his hands and yelling to the house, Sheilfa is here! Look look! Sheilfa is here!
As much as I can I try not to ask who was it this time and where it hurt.
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