Image Junkyard #2 (Week Three)

A table for two in La Lanterna. A young girl, maybe eight, leans on her father for support. She'll always need him that way. We're half into a plate of patate fritte and something about boys here and there when the girl runs fingers through waves in my hair. Once and then twice again. A little confused and out of comfort, I say ciao repeatedly like a parrot without any other training. Her mother speaks sorry back--tries to explain the condition. And although I don't understand, I know. So I tell the girl she's beautiful, let the hand play out it's interest until the mother says something like that's enough.