It was a sunny day and the daddy was mean. I drank a shot of milk. The milk was cold in my mouth. The daddy was mean. I gazed at the clouds out the window. I allowed myself to be dressed. The daddy said, “You need to brush your teeth.”

I looked at the daddy. The daddy looked at me. He was like an old bull I saw in Madrid. His eyes flecked with white like the clouds. The daddy’s nostrils flared. I looked at the daddy. Then, I looked away.

“You need to put on your jacket,” the daddy said.

“I need toothpicks,” I said.

“You don’t need toothpicks. It’s time for school. You can’t play with toothpicks,” the daddy said.

“I am not going to play with them,” I said.

The mean daddy said, no. His sigh was like that of a hunter who’s arrow goes wide. I told the daddy, “You are mean.”

The mean daddy picked me up. I thrashed in his arms. I kicked the air. I was like Old Dominguin gored by a bull. I was proud without being arrogant. The daddy carried me to school. The daddy was mean.