That kid

Their father just bought them two mini Jugo juices. Judging by their wet hair, they must’ve been swimming. I can’t figure out if the smallest one is a boy or a girl; its blonde curls make me think of a boy. The older one is a girl. I think she’s drinking a strawberry smoothie.

Both are so unaware of what’s around them…in their heads, they’re still swimming; they won’t stop circling their little legs. I admit I’m jealous. Twelve years ago, I learned how to swim, but I never really mastered it that well. There’s a list of things on which I gave up: playing the piano, guitar, drums, tennis, writing Chinese, … I don’t remember one thing that I continued to pursue. And writing is not a hobby. To me, it’s more a first aid box or sometimes even a rescue kit. First, I put my mind in the recovery position, and then I work out how to put things back in order.

I think their father teaches them how to swim. I only realised that my dad only taught me poker when I was ten; I wish I could make more use of it. He also gave me private maths lessons, which was one of the worst times in my entire life. In my head, I was hardly ever there to pay attention to his teaching; neither was I paying attention in the classroom. My self-consciousness is the result of how the kids used to look at me. While all of them weren’t even aware of their appearances, I was already reading Darwin to understand why I looked the way I did or why they all looked the same, but I never found the answer.

I don’t think these two kids over there even care about their looks at this age.

Mendel brought me closer to the answer that I was looking for; however, I’d lost interest by then.

The little blonde one with the curls is a girl. She has no idea how pretty she’ll look in a few years. She didn’t finish her smoothie.

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