He Only Wants to Read Two Pages.

He only wants to read two pages.

He is trying to read a book while reclined on a sun lounger, in weather that doesn’t really call for a sun lounger.

His daughter is bouncing on the trampoline a few feet away, in weather that doesn’t really call for a trampoline.

He only wants to read two pages.

But she wants his attention.

She’s asking him to rate each individual bounce out of ten.

He only wants to read two pages.

He tells her he only wants to read two pages. In peace.

But now she’s singing a song from four decades before she was born, as she bounces on the trampoline in weather that doesn’t really call for a trampoline.

He only wants to read two pages but now he’s stuck wondering how she knows the words to a song that was released four decades before she was born and has remained largely absent from commercial radio during her lifetime.

He only wants to read two pages but now she’s asking him to rate each bounce individually out of ten, again.

He only wants to read two pages. In silence.

He only wants to read two pages but now she’s naming the planets out loud in the wrong order.

He only wants to read two pages but now she’s singing about her own hair. Its length, its colour and how it moves while she bounces on the trampoline.

He only wants to read two pages but now he’s beginning to wonder if she’s ever had a thought that wasn’t said out loud.

He only wants to read two pages but now the sun is low and any warmth that was there has gone and it was never really weather that called for a sun lounger anyway.

He only wanted to read two pages. She only wanted him to rate each individual bounce out of ten. Neither stood a chance.