She, sitting down, looks at her legs stretched out in front of her.Â “Look!”Â She cries and points at a spot on her shin.Â “There’s a hole in my leg!”
He looks.Â “Huh,” he says.
“Huh!?”Â She exclaims.Â “What do you mean, huh?Â There’s a hole in my leg!”
He shrugs and says, “Looks like a chicken pox scar to me.”
“I’ve never seen it before!”Â She says.Â “I have had these legs for fifty years and I shave them at least once a week — mostly — and I have never seen that hole before.”
He shakes his head.Â “Okay then.Â Maybe it’s a skin cramp.Â Look for it tomorrow and see if it’s still there.”
She drops her chin and gives him “one of those” looks.Â “A skin cramp?”Â She queries skeptically.
Again he shrugs.Â “They happen.Â The skin gets a little stressed and —”
“It’s not a skin cramp!”Â She interrupts. “It’s not sore or anything.”
He says, “A small skin cramp wouldn’t necessarily hurt.Â Just give it a rest and check it again tomorr-”
“You don’t seem very concerned,” she accuses.
“Oh, I’m getting there,” he assures her.
She stares at him.Â He gazes back innocently.
“There. Is. A. Hole. In. My. Leg.” She says very slowly and very clearly.
He shakes his head.Â “It’s not a hole.”
“What do you mean it’s not a hole?!”Â She points.Â “I can see it!”
“It’s not a hole.”Â He repeats.Â “It’s a depression.Â And don’t exaggerate.Â It isn’t big enough to hold the sea.”
“My leg is not depressed,” she answers. “And it’s obvious you aren’t going to take this seriously.”
“I don’t think you’d like it if I took your leg to Sirius,” he says.
She shakes her head.Â “Maybe a tranquilizer will help.”
“No!”Â He says.Â “You can’t have a tranquilizer if you’re already depressed!”
“Oh don’t worry,” she answers.Â ” I don’t want it for me.”
He stares at her.Â She gazes back innocently.