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which made me laugh again and I said, "I don't think so," and she pulled away. "Why not?" she asked me. "Well, prose I don't know," I said. She leaned into me again. "I want to see your weewee," she said and I cracked a grin, kind of laughing, kind of trying to push her away but she wouldn't let up. She began groping my arm prose and pinching my skin, trying to climb back up to my ear. "Let me see your weewee," she kept insisting again and again, beginning prose to giggle, I think mostly because I was beginning to giggle while the rest of the table was getting into some real nitty gritty about Phil's mom's ovarian cancer, with words like "fibroid cyst" and "bulbous tissue" popping up like prairie dogs from the conversation. Emma's hands were growing downright sweaty around my wrists as she was trying to pull me off my chair. "Come on, come on," she was whining and smiling when I caught Lissy giving us a look and I smiled and made a face like "Don't worry about it." I was trying to push Emma back to her chair, which was apparently tickling, and she was giggling more than ever when, suddenly, she lunged at me, jabbing her little six-year-old pointy fingers into my stomach and grabbing at my sweater as I was laughing and coughing and yanking her by the nape of her dress and face to face, I whispered, "Cut it out!"
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