One afternoon, I was in the changing room at the local swimming pool when I overheard a conversation in the stall next to mine:
– OK, now Billy is going to put on his swimsuit, said an old woman’s voice.
– NO, GRANDMA FIRST! squeaked a kid.
– Well, all right, first Grandma, then Billy, okay?
There were some shuffling noises, and then:
– GRANDMA, YOUR UNDIES ARE UGLY!
– Hem, no, they’re not ugly, Billy, they’re regular undies. Be nice, now.
– NO THEY’RE UGLY!
– AND THEY STINK!
– Billy, what’s the matter with you! My undies do not stink! I put them on clean this morning, like I always do.
– NO THEY SMELL LIKE FISHIES!
I was trying not to laugh out loud, since they could have heard me as easily as I them, but it was difficult. After I finished changing, I couldn’t resist hanging back in the common area to get a peek of the fearsome Billy and his presumably sheepish grandmother.
I waited a few minutes, then the lock clicked open and, wearing a bulky black speedo and holding a grey towel in his hand, an old man appeared. He looked at me, slightly startled to see me staring – behind him, the changing room was empty –, then he lowered his head and slowly set out for the showers, dragging his flip-flopped feet on the blue and white tile.