“Why do you do that?”
I turned around, halfway up the stairs, and pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Slap your leg?”
We were in his basement, which had a same-leg staircase.
“Wanna play horse?” I asked.
He paused for a second, and then said, “Sure,” before running past me up the stairs.
I don’t know how it started, these little games. But they still linger. The initial motivation might be gone, but they’re worn in place. Products of habit. Annoying tics that my wife can’t stand.