If you had rested your head when the PC froze, it would have been memories of the sea sweeping against the shore, palms dancing in the cold breeze, Okon giggling, head placed on your bare chest. But you didn’t. Instead, you placed your legs on the table, bringing your socks into view. You looked at the gold-lined rims and smiled, recalling that night Mum had asked what color socks you wanted and how, annoyed, she slapped you when you said pink.
Soon, you started laughing.
If Mum were alive today, she would have learned that a boy becomes what he chooses.