"Kid's Stuff"

"G'mornin'," she said and I groaned.

"Hiya, angel," I said and stuffed my face back in my pillow.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Like a herd of sheep was marching on my head all night," I said into the pillow.

"Hmm," she purred. "Maybe we shouldn't have...you know."

I bolted upright, wrenching my back. "Maybe we should have," I growled.

She laughed. She always does that. Or, at least I imagined she always does that.

Anyway, she was already out of bed, sashaying into the bathroom. I watched her ... sashay. I listened to the toilet flush, and the water splashing in the sink. I listened to the soft thump of her feet on the floor. Then to silence. Then to the clatter of plastic and metal and a resounding crash of shattered glass, squeals of pain and shrieks of laughter. Then it stopped.

I raced to the bathroom and threw open the door. She sat, cross-legged, blood dripping from her arms and cheeks, amid the ruins of the shower door and the shards of the mirror, amid the clutter of toothbrushes, bars of soap, lipstick and makeup. She sat smiling, holding a small, squirming figure by the tail.

"Mouse," she said, unecessarily.

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