Sue Shampoo. Sue Hullaballoo. Sue Dancing Shoes. Sue Too. Sue Phew.
I park the perambulator and lift the rain shield: "Sue Chew! " she says.
Her round puffy cheeks are smudged with orange maize.
I kiss her.
On each cheek and feel the sticky residue cling to me. I flick my tongue over my lips: "Mmmm!" I say before the flavour is replaced with a chemical aftertaste.
Presentable again with a wet wipe polish.
Children run over artificial turf. She joins them in the exercise area. I watch her struggle to keep up.
She is breathless. She is not a carbon copy. Replicated not duplicated. Expect some blurring.
But I love her, just the same.
Her hair not as yellow, her eyes not as blue. Sue Two.
Saturday, 21 June 2014
'Sue' by Elaine Marie McKay
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