So I’m next in line at the grocery store checkout, and standing at the credit card scanner is a thirty-ish guy holding hands with his daughter. She’s five, maybe. Cute as a button. Minions t-shirt and pink shorts and wee Teva sandals.
The cashier, a grandmother if ever I saw one, leans across the conveyer belt thingy and beams down at the little girl and says, “Hi! Who are you?”
The girl hangs her head shyly. Doesn’t answer.
Daddy absently strokes her hair and smiles and says, “She’s my little side hustle, aren’t you Kaylie?”
I think, Nice going, asshole. Which is too harsh, I’m sure, because I know of course he’s kidding.
But she doesn’t.