poor, poor, pitiful peter

i sat at my desk, typing something up. filing things. shuffling papers. that's what i do at work.
peter stared at me sadly from his place on the floor by the wall. he dug his heels into the ground and slammed them down a few times for good measure. he was unhappy.
his mom was downstairs making dinner for the workers, but he'd grown tired of sitting still and was now in search of a playmate.
he plopped his head down and heaved a sigh.
i did that thing where you smile but don't let the kid see because you don't want to hurt their feelings. i love dramatic kids.
"i just wish...i wish someone...i wish i had someone to PLAY WITH," he announced for the zillionth time. he examined a piece of lint or something he found in the carpet. pretty sure he considered eating it, decided against it, set it back down. "will YOU play with me?"
though this was maybe his sixteenth attempt to move me from my desk, i had to turn him down. i was busy typing something up, filing things, shuffling papers. "sorry, bud. i gotta work. i wish i could come play with you though."
"you will!?" he was on his feet, like, now.
"no, i wish i could. i'm sorry..."
"oh...." he looked to the side and heaved another sigh, one even bigger and more mournful than the first. then, his voice melted away to barely a whisper and he gave me probably the best line i've ever heard from a kid that age: "all i can think is all the fun times i never had..."