"Don't touch that!"
The man bellows and claps his hands, startling everyone in the museum's art gallery to turn and watch as his little girl pulls her frightened fingers from the frame and runs to her mother's curved hip. A short un-swallowable moment happens then and the girl's muffled moans escape from between her small pink lips. Quick rapid sniffles tremble her tiny nostrils and, like a fickle floral elevator, her knee-length yellow sundress moves up and down, following her shuddering shoulders until they eventually settle on street level. Bing. The doors open and the woman nearest to me makes an exaggerated frown of disapproval. I make her a half shrugged smile and follow the family out.
"Don't cry. We're here to look, not touch."
The mother says.
But the suddenness of this sadness has already started and like a gardening hose that has been turned off, the tears will gush until they're gone. And so they do, and with her thumb plugged as a pacifier, the little girl follows behind her mother, whilst we, her protectors, stand by listening as her tall, short-tempered father with sophististicatingly silver hair snorts snot up into his brain and coughs flem playfully between his teeth and tongue, as if to be polite. As if he is always just trying to be polite.