When I met Lucy, it was love at first site. Not romantic love, true friend love. Lucy’s hands were covered in warts. Everybody knew you got warts from playing with frogs. I played with frogs every chance I got, but so far had not been able to acquire the warts proving how tough I was.
Naturally, I had to ask about it. “How’d you git them warts?” I always took the subtle approach.
“How do you think? From playin’ with frogs, Dummy. Frogs’ backs is covered with warts.” She climbed exponentially in my opinion, a girl who liked frogs and wasn’t afraid to say “pee” without looking around to make sure her mama couldn’t hear. I had a hard life. My own mother made us say “wee wee” and swore she’d know if we EVER said “pee.” “Pee” was vulgar. I’d had my behind paddled more than once for getting caught saying it.
“Have you got any frogs now? I want to see them warts.” I had to know.
“Sure. There’s always some at the creek.” She took off and I followed. There were indeed plenty of frogs at the creek. We caught a couple and examined them their backs splendidly populated with warts.
We had a wonderful time with those frogs. I loved the feel of those scratchy warts on my fingers and lips. Alas, long before I’d had my fill of warty frog love, Mother called out saying it was time to go, but not before I slipped a couple of frogs in my pocket.
“Oh no! I gotta go, already.” I whined.
“That’s okay. Next time you come back, we’ll git you a snake.” She promised.
I got the snake, but never did get my warts.