Chew

The TV is on in the living room, the channel on Bob the Builder. My sister is sitting in my father’s recliner, reading a magazine. I, on the other hand, am lying on the floor with my niece, both of us watching the show.

From the kitchen, my mother asks, “Steven, is this juice yours?”

“Yes, I didn’t finish it at lunch.”

“Here,” she walks into the living with the glass and passes it to me. “Drink it, and I can finish washing the rest of the dishes.”

I grab the glass, take a large mouthful and pass the glass back to my mother. She disappears around the corner.

With my mouth full of OJ, my cheeks expand like that of a chipmunk and my niece notices the anomaly of my face. She comes close, puts her hands on either side of my mouth and begins to push my cheeks inwards.

“Chew, Uncle.” She puckers her lips. “Chew.”

I nod my head and grunt.

“Chew. Cheeeeeewwwwww,” she repeats as she presses my cheeks further inwards.

By now, I have one of two options: a) swallow about a gallon of OJ at once and choke, or b) spit out a gallon of OJ in my niece’s face. Since my sister is in the room, I’m going with the first one.

I swallow. Hard. Tears fill my eyes. She smiles. “Good, Uncle,” she says as she pats my cheeks.

When she turns towards the TV, I let out a large, hacking cough. I wonder if I left a lung somewhere on the floor.