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Truth or Dare

It was just the two of them at grandma’s breakfast table.  Which was when my daughter leaned over her peanut butter sandwich and whispered, “Do you want to play Truth or Dare?”

“Huh?” my son asked.  He flicked his sandwich.  He slumped his shoulders at the sniff of peanut butter

“Truth or Dare,” she said.

“Shoes?”

He wasn’t getting it.  He licked the jam off his sandwich and made a train with his crust.

She persisted.  “TRUTH.” And he finally shrugged.

She leaned closer to his plate.  “All right,” she said.

And he nodded.  He didn’t have any idea what Troof was.

“What color is your underwear?” she snickered.

His eyes skirted left to remember. “Blue,” he said.

He poked his finger through his sandwich and spun it around like a frisbee.

“Ready for your dare, bud?” my daughter asked.  She smiled her support like a best friend.

“I dare you to eat your whole sandwich.”

From the corner of the kitchen I winked at my eight year old, walked out past the dishwasher and heard my son shout in my wake, “I did it!

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