WHY I HATE CHILDREN.
WHO: Martín and Jo.
WHEN: Thursday afternoon. (August 5th)
WHERE: IKEA.
WHAT: DAT. ASS. I mean, hey, look at those Swedish meatballs!
After his draining shopping excursion through IKEA and coming out with only a new lamp and a cerise-obviously-not-pink bath mat, Martín decided to refresh himself with a nice, cold cup of lingonberry soda before leaving the store. And refresh his memory: wasn't he supposed to be babysitting his roommate's nephew? Mierda. In exchange for two days' worth of notes (coincidentally the very same two days he was stuck at Francis' house, ahem) and an essay in their English class, he'd hastily agreed to look after the brat for the day; he certainly wasn't going to stop all his plans to do so either.
Strolling leisurely over to the "Småland" play area, he slurped on his soda and peered into the massive ball pit for... Harry... or Gary. Whatever. Then he waved lazily. In response the seven year-old gave him an unenthusiastic look and flung a ball at his face. Luckily there was safety glass between them.
"Mocoso," he sneered under his breath and made a threatening gesture at him.
An attendant looked over in alarm. "Excuse me, sir, are you looking for someone?"