I don't like it.

    I noticed Nellie eyeing my shirt as I sat with her one Tuesday afternoon and wondered what was up. It was black with brightly colored flowers--peasant style, maybe not the height of fashion, but I thought it was pretty.
    Finally she spoke. "I don't like that shirt."
    "Oh." What else could I say? "I'm sorry."
    "You should take it back."
    "Well, I can't. I've had it for several years and washed it many times."
    Nellie corrected herself. "No, I mean you should get rid of it."
    I raised my eyebrows. "I don't want to get rid of it. I like it. If you don't like it, you could just not look at me."
    She put on her pitiful expression. "But I want to look at you! I don't have anybody else to look at."
    "Don't look at the shirt, then, if you don't like it. Just look at my face." I held my hands like a window around my head.
    "I can't! I tried, and then--whoosh, there's the shirt."
    I was exasperated. "Nellie, how would you like it if I said I didn't like your shirt?"
    She looked down at her own clothes. "What's wrong with this shirt?"
    "Oy, for example. Would you think that was very nice?"
    Nellie thought about it. "But I'm older than you."
    I rolled my eyes. I couldn't help it. "So does that mean you don't need to be polite?"
    She thought some more. "Nooo....it doesn't mean that."
    "Well, then." I thought the subject was closed and picked up my teacup.
    Nellie looked at me a moment longer and then shook her head. "But I really don't like that shirt."