joost klein/joost klein

You are raising Joost. No, he isn't little. He doesn't know Russian, and you are teaching it to him. Joost is from Friesland. And so, at night, you are lying in bed with him when suddenly Joost lets out a swear word. You told him "you can't do that," Joost replied "I can," you repeated yourself, and he said "I can do whatever I want."

You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking at him with feigned sternness, though in the darkness, your eyes still betrayed a smile. Joost lay on his back, arms spread wide, looking completely pleased with himself.

— "I can do whatever I want"? — you asked, trying to mimic his accent. — Who told you that?

Joost turned his head toward you, squinting cunningly. His fair hair was tousled across the pillow, and that same daring smirk he usually saves for the stage played on his lips.

— I told myself, — he answered in broken Russian, clearly proud that he had managed to construct a full sentence. — My house — my rules. Your house — also my rules.

He crossed one leg over the other and added, more quietly, something in Frisian that was clearly unprintable, yet sounded almost melodic.

— Joost, if you express yourself like that, they won't understand you at the store. They'll think you're swearing at the bread, — you sighed, lightly flicking his nose.

He caught your hand, pulled it to his face, and, suddenly turning serious, whispered:

— If I say bad word — you get angry. When you get angry — you look only at me. I like this.

He moved closer, closing the distance, and added defiantly:

— Well? What is next bad word? Teach me.