He is older, stronger, and straddles me, holding my arms spread wide. I can’t fight back. Leaning in, his face a couple inches above mine, he lets saliva dribble from his mouth toward me. A long viscous line I can still smell today: halitosis and cigarettes. I’d buck him off but that would release the drool onto my face sooner. Instead, cross-eyed, I monitor its progress and prepare for the inevitable. Suddenly, there is a slurp, and the spit is drawn back into his mouth. He gets up. Laughs. I try to laugh too. This is just what uncles do.
Jean Buie is a lawyer and adjudicator who loves to write. She lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her family and her dog, Grimm.