Not Tonight, Josephine

“Not tonight, Josephine,” Rex said. “I have a headache.”

Josephine stood before him, her lip pouting, eyes sad. She jutted a hip to the side, placing her hand on it, and almost lost her balance on the thin points of her heels.

“But you promised!”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t. Just can’t.”

Josephine stomped off. Rex worried that she would put holes in the floor, but the hardwood held; her shoes caused only light marks.

Two hours later, Rex pushed himself up from the sofa. He stretched, then turned off the television. He made his way down the hall and knocked gently. A voice, muffled by a pillow and a doorway, said, “Come.” He opened the door and entered.

“Josephine, I’m sorry. Tomorrow night.”

“That’s what you said last night! All you do is sit and watch sports though.”

“I know. But I’m very tired.”

“I just want to see a movie, Dad.”

“I know, dear. So no matter how tired I am, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Josephine lifted her face from the pillow. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay then. I forgive you.” She sat up, swinging her legs over the bed.

“Now brush your teeth and go to bed,” Rex walked out and closed her door.

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