That red spot!” she says with alarm.“That’s a freckle!”“It wasn’t there before...” she says as she inspects her entire arm.“It’s cute.”“It’s not cute.”“Then it’s mine,” I say. “If you don’t like it, it’s mine. I’ll call it Brady.”“My freckle?”“Yes.”“You’re naming my freckle after yourself?” she says. “And you think I have issues?”“It’s like a star. People buy stars in the constellation and name them after people al the time. As gifts.”“So then are you buying my freckle? Because I don’t know if you can afford my freckle. My freckles don’t come cheap, you know.”“I’ve already claimed it,” I declare. “It’s not up for discussion anymore. Just eat your ice cream. And don’t spill any on Brady.
