“Thith water tastes like irony,” the boy said with a lisp.

“I believe you mean it tastes like it has iron in it.”

“No, I mean it tastes like irony. And thith Gatorade tastes like animothity, while thith Pepsi hath a thlight feeling of general dithcomfort.”

“Ah. Ehrm, well. So—”

“You sthmell like pompothity.”

“Erm, all right. How old are you again?”

“Thix. But my mommy thays I’m older than my years.”

“I see. Well, if you’re quite done, I’ll just get back to eating my submarine sandwich.”

“Which looks like mediocrity.”

“Why you little—”

“Ooh, nevermind. You thmell like animothity now.”

The man snorted and shifted over to the other side of the bench. The boy beamed and hopped off.