Isn’t It Ironic?

I listen to two children talk too much as they bob in the water. I have lain myself down next to the pool. My book lies on the table next to me, unopened.

“But there is no Queen of America.” I hear the boy say. He is seven.
“I know,” the girl responds. She is six and speaks with a British accent. “I was just pretending.”
“Are you from London?” The boy asks.
“How did you know?” The girl giggles, sounding surprised. Her compliment is the perfect complement to her manor.

“I just guessed.” He seems to consider the conversation that preceded this point before deciding how to proceed “What brings you to Miami?”
“We are visiting my cousin.”
“Where does he live?”
“She lives half in Miami and half in New York.”

I realize I will have to move farther from the pool, if this goes much further.

“That’s impossible. They’re very far apart. It takes hours to fly even using my dad’s jet.”

Though they have mutual interests between them, they are not common among the three of us.

“Well, she drives a Maserati which is, like, practically the fastest car in the universe, so maybe that’s how she does it.”

They are so affected, it has effected a feeling of nausea within me.