My six year old daughter is staring down her glass of cranberry juice when I walk into the kitchen. Ever since she had pyelonephritis as a toddler, I crack open a bottle of the good stuff at the first sign of a UTI.
The cold juice I poured a while ago is now tepid and still she sits before it. She’s talking to herself, but it’s loud enough that I overhear. “You would think I would like it,” she says, regarding the glass. “After all, it’s pink!”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, “But it’s dark pink.”
She warms to the topic now. “Evil pink. TOXIC pink.”
Her voice lowers to a whisper, for effect. “Treacherous pink.”
Then she sighs heavily, shrugs, and bottoms up.
Drama is in this lady’s past, present and future.