Here Kalp shifts his head to the other side of Gwen’s tummy, so Basil can hear better.
“He raised his hands to catch their words and asked, ‘Why are you sad?’” Kalp recites, raising his voice into a light falsetto, the timbre of the heroes of all his childhood stories.
Basil snorts tea up his nose and has to pull a tissue from the box on the side table to keep it from leaking down his face.
“We are sad,” Kalp continues, this time in the lowered voice of the distraught, “because there is never any time for intercourse.”
This time Basil howls and has to put the mug down to keep from splashing Gwen and the back of Kalp’s head.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, the tissue clamped firmly over his face. “Go on.”
Kalp twitches his ears in amusement, then lays them flat again. He knows now that mentioning intercourse around human males always causes some sort of strange, gleeful, immature reaction. It is such a bizarre form of prudery.
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