"Mawmmy, woyy awwe dosze men weawwing wipstick?" Chad was four years old, scrawny, blonde, and inarticulate for his age. He wore the same variety of mesh, sleeveless shirt as the men he was asking about from behind the fence of the emptiest playground they could find—today. Chad's question was loud enough for the men to hear and it stopped them in their tracks.
"Oh, dear." Chad's mother whispered, but still at an audible volume. "Not all men are like your father," she said—pride swelled in her voice. "There are all different kinds of men."
"Who are you calling different, bitch," the shortest one with the biggest mustache hollered. And two long seconds later—after the men had finished exchanging glances, puckering their lips and furrowing their thick eyebrows—they rushed the fence and hopped over its top with ease. No one who was close enough to help offered any.
They all left the playground that night with fresh, new bruises, small scrapes and shrunken egos. Today was over, but the smell of blood lingered, slowly blending into the evening flowers. Lipstick was everywhere.
