This is the third time Dad has dropped his pen and asked me to pick it up. The first time I was a typical teenager about it, and was reluctant to make the effort. But given the view from the floor, I wasn’t so stroppy the second time. I was straight down there. Although I wasn’t exactly straight back up.
And here I am again, not even pretending to look for the pen. My eyes are glued to the top of Dad’s legs, straining to get a glimpse of what’s under those shorts.
“Have you got a problem, Son?” Dad asks after a few minutes.
“No, Dad. I don’t have a problem. I’m perfectly happy here. But do you have a problem with me being here?”
“That’s exactly where I want you, boy. Now crawl a little closer and breathe Daddy in. I think it’s time we got to know each other better.”