touch it!’ I snap. ‘Just leave it alone.’
But he won’t. ‘No, Ouise, there’s just this little dark mark,’ and he licks his finger, the way your mother used to do when you were a kid, and begins to rub even harder. ‘Hold still, I’ve almost got it.’
But I know what he’s after and it isn’t a mark, it’s a suppurating boil that’s taken a good ten minutes and two different products to hide and now he’s only making it worse.
I push him off. ‘Just leave it I said! Can’t you understand English? Get off me!’
The bus lurches up to our stop and I race down the aisle ahead of him, while he struggles, laden with shopping, behind me. ‘What’s got into you, anyway?’ he says, as we clamber off. ‘Why are you so touchy?’
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