First and Only Monkey
I met a monkey once, just one monkey, just one time. It stole a large sweet tart right out of my hand before I could ever even pet it and see what it felt like and whether it was worth losing my candy. I was about eight and was so excited when Mom said there was a monkey and perhaps I could touch it.
It snatched the tart away from me and laughed at me. I was not amused. I was hurt and enraged as only an eight-year-old can be when the candy they have been enjoying is wrenched away by someone they can’t see and haven’t even met. Mom said I might as well pet the monkey, since the crime of thievery had already been committed. It seemed a shame not to get something out of the experience besides righteous indignation. I reached out and, of course, the first thing I touched was the hand that held my sweet tart. It amused me to see the little hand gripping the candy so tightly. It grabbed even harder when I pulled gently on the tart to make it think I was trying to take it back. We playfully tugged the candy between us for a minute and I patted other parts of the monkey. I liked its fur. I decided that since the monkey couldn’t go into a store and get candy with money like I could, since I was a grown-up young lady, It was a good thing I came along with something worthwhile for it to steal. My mom and I went on our way.
I have not seen another monkey since. I think making the acquaintance of one monkey was fine, but I don’t think I want anything to do with a whole barrel of them.