Page 55 of The Stranger

I brought my napkin to my mouth and turned a snicker into a cough. I felt sorry for him. Almost. “Was he in the kitchen, by any chance?”

She turned her attention my way. “How did you know that?”

“I suspect he was talking about olive oil,” I said, thinking how nice it was of me to put her father out of his strangled-faced misery.

“Olive oil is a virgin? But that doesn’t make sense because Solange at school said that the mother of Jesus was also a virgin, and the mother of Jesus cannot be a bottle of oil,” she concluded, holding out her hands like a game show host.

M. LDH muttered something that sounded suspiciously curse-like.

“I don’t think the mother of Jesus would like to hear you say that word, Papa.”

He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “The word virgin can be used in many contexts, Sylvie.”

“Oil and people and what else?” she asked, barely allowing him to come up for breath.

“In the context of people,” he’d said, trying again, “a virgin is someone who isn’t… well, who isn’t trying to have a baby.”

“So the Virgin Mother wasn’t trying to have a baby,” baby detective Poirot asked, her expression one of suspicion.

“That’s correct.” His answer sounded strong. His expression not so much.

On a technicality, I mentally added as I reached for my water glass.

“So you are a virgin, Papa.”

I almost choked on my water.

“I…” His eyes darted my way. “Not exactly.”

Oh my God. From the mouths of babes… comes the funniest shit.

“But you aren’t trying to have any more children. You already say we are enough.” She turned to me. “And also you, Primrose.”

“Me? What did I⁠—”

“You too must be a virgin.”

“Oh. Well.” Technically, no. Potentially revirginized by my life? Probably.

“I have an idea!” she announced, practically bouncing in her seat. “You could have a baby together. I would get a sister I always wanted, and then you two would no longer be virgins!”

She looked to be delighted with her own conclusion.

The adults at the table, not so much. Yes, Sylvie is lovely. Sometimes.

Felix, meanwhile, is a pain in the rear end. But I’m pretty sure that’s written in the big bro rule book. The thing with big brothers is, they’re ready to throw down for you at a moment’s notice. But equally, they’re the first to throw you down at their leisure. At least I can’t imagine Felix farting on Sylvie’s head.

“What’s the other llama called?” I ask as a ginger colored specimen appears from the shed at the other side of the paddock.

“That is Paco. He loves Lola.”

Head high, ears pricked, the would-be Romeo ambles across the grass towards Lola.

“But she does not love him.” The little girl gives a sad shake of her head.

“I think I can see that,” I say as Lola glares his way, sort of, Fuck, not you again.

Undeterred, Paco closes the distance, stretching his neck hopefully in her direction. But it looks like Lola’s not giving the (llama) man the man the benefit of the doubt. More like she’s doubting the benefit of the (llama) man. I hear you, (llama) sister.