“Hmm,” I say.

“You think stuff like that’s hereditary? Like, you know … runs in the blood?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” I say.

The girl says nothing for the moment. I smoke my cigarette and train my eyes on the cat path. Not a single cat has shown the whole time.

“Hey, you sure you won’t drink something? I’m going to have a cola,” says the girl.

“No thanks,” I tell her.

The girl gets up from her deck chair and disappears into the shade, dragging her leg; meanwhile, I pick up one of the magazines lying by my feet and flip through the pages. Contrary to what I’d expected, it’s a men’s monthly. The center spread has a woman sitting in an unnatural pose, legs wide apart, so that you can see her genitals and pubic hair through a sheer body stocking. Never a dull moment, I think, and put the magazine back where I found it, then redirect my gaze toward the cat path, arms folded across my chest.

After what seems like ages, the girl returns, glass of cola in hand. She’s shed her Adidas T-shirt for a bikini top with her shorts. It’s a small bra that shows off the full shape of her breasts, with tie-strings in back.

For sure, it’s one hot afternoon. Just lying there in the sun on the deck chair, my gray T-shirt is blotched dark with sweat.

“Tell me,” the girl picks up where she left off, “suppose you found out the girl you liked had a sixth finger, what would you do?”

“I’d sell her to the circus,” I say.

“Really?”

“Just kidding,” I come back, startled. “I probably wouldn’t mind.”

“Even if there’s the possibility of passing it on to your kids?”

I give it some thought.

“I don’t think I’d mind. One finger too many’s no great harm.”

“What about if she had four breasts?”

I think it over a while.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Four breasts? This conversation’s going nowhere fast, so I decide to change the subject.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” the girl answers. “Just turned sixteen. Freshman in high school.”

“But you’re taking time off from school.”

“Can’t walk too much before my leg starts to hurt. Got a gash right by my eye, too. It’s a pretty straight school, no telling what kind of trouble I’d be in if they found out I hurt myself falling off a bike … which is why I’m out sick. I can take a whole year off if I want. I’m in no big hurry to graduate from high school.”

“Hmm” is all I can say.

“But anyway, back to what we were talking about, you said you thought it was okay to marry a girl with six fingers, but four breasts turned you off.”

“I didn’t say it turned me off, I just said I didn’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“I can’t quite picture it.”

“But you can picture a sixth finger.”

“Sort of.”