It didn’t seem weird at the time. When I thought he wasn’t looking (emphasis on ‘thought’) I licked my index finger, placed it on his baby, and tried to rub the mark away.
‘He’ was a stranger in a hardware store carpark. A man whose face felt much too close to mine. I’d been straightening up after strapping our five-year-old son in his booster seat when I saw it approaching. The owner of the face was pointing a furious finger at a tiny white mark on his gleaming orange car, and driving daggers from his eyeballs into mine.