“Well, look here,” said the bully with an expectant grin, “a clean sheet of paper, so pretty and so fresh.”
“Please,” said the page, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?!” the bully said, mock indignantly. “Why would you think I want trouble?”
“I know your kind,” said the page, “all full of sarcasm and ill intentions.”
“Oh, come on,” the bully cooed. “I just want a little taste —”
“You wish to defile me,” said the page. “The intentions are written all over your face.”
“If by ‘defile’ you mean I want to run my fingers over your pure, smooth surface and leave words of love and primal joy in a passionate frenzy,” the bully murmured, “well, then, yes, yes, I surely do intend to defile you.”
“Oh, my!”
“Oh, my, indeed,” said the bully, and he began to write.
And when he was spent, he brushed his fingers over what he had written, and if it was not good, at least it wasn’t bad.
“You should not have done that,” the page hissed.
At this the bully dropped his facade. “I was just play-acting, lovely page,” he cooed, sincerely this time. “If I had and idea you didn’t want me to —”
And now the page laughed. “I know, you silly. Two can play that game; in fact, one needs two to, well, tango. Now come here and run your hands over me — oh yeah, like that, that’s it —”
“Oh, yes,” said the bully.
And then the page struck.
“Ouch!” the bully said, pulling his hand back in pain. “What did you do THAT for?”
“I don’t like bullies,” said the page.