Sixteen
Bettina’s dream predicted thunder. The thunder took three-quarters of the day to arrive. This gave Bettina enough time to shop for a child’s birthday, to finish the last of the sketches, and to write herself a series of very rude notes. She’d been putting off doing work and it was accumulating.
“What I want,” she told her fifteen-year-old stepchild when she delivered the present, “is your sense of humour.”
“Why?” he asked plaintively.
“My life would be so much more interesting if I was even half as funny as you are.”
“How about I cut it in half and we share it?” He went to a drawer, took out a huge pair of invisible scissors, and pantomimed cutting something in half. “Here, eat this.”
And she did and asked, “Am I funny yet?”
“Give it time,” he said. “Give it time.”
“I was h
