Cohen is eight months old. His mother informs me he’s tall for his age. I don’t think he’s that big. I doubt he even comes up to my knee.
We’re in a Mexican restaurant. The signs by the door claim that it’s the best in Sacramento. I’ve never been to a better place in this city, but I live in British Columbia.
Cohen is making faces at the waiter while I try and decide between chicken and beef.
I go with chicken.
While we wait I play games with Cohen: he drops his plastic keys, like a drunk, and I pick them up. His interest in this game outlasts mine.
I tell him that his name in Hebrew means priest. This seems to have an impact on him. He makes a contemplative face, like I’ve just revealed part of his destiny. His mom looks at him and tells me he’s gasy today.
His t-shirt has a lion and a giraffe on it and says “best friends.” I explain why his shirt makes no sense, that lions eat giraffes’s when they can, and that he should not expect mortal enemies to be best friends.
After reflection on this thought he challenges me to a staring contest. I win. I always do.