Last night was my little cousin’s birthday party, and there I saw my nephew, Zack, who I hadn’t seen in so many months I lost count. Naturally, I was excited to see him.
At the end of the night, I sought him out. “Zack Attack! I’m here for my good-bye hug!”
“Please don’t kiss me,” he said, taking a step back.
“I didn’t say anything about a kiss,” I said, “but just because you said that, I won’t rest until I get one!”
This time he took two steps back and shook his head. I think I saw a bead of sweat on his brow.
I puckered up and waited.
“Can’t we just high five?” he stammered. He held up his hand—and to his horror, I leaned in and planted a big wet one right smack on his palm.
He stared at it, aghast, like it had just been amputated. By the look on his face, I think he would have preferred it that way.
Suddenly, something occurred to me. Every family has an eccentric, slobbering Great-Aunt Bertha with lipstick-stained teeth and a knack for cornering unfortunate passersby under the mistletoe. Why hadn’t I ever found one in my family? Where was our Bertha?
Pass the red lipstick. I think I missed a tooth.