Page 132 of Babies for the Big Shot
I say “thing” because I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be. A sculpture? A coat rack? A violent metaphor?
Whatever it was, it’s now inpieceson the floor.
“Oh no. No no no, Meatball, don’t lick that…”
Too late. He’s already investigating the wreckage, a slobbery crime scene analyst.
I stare at the glittering pile of sculpture shards, wondering if I can glue it back together with eyelash glue and tears.
“Oh no!”
I gently place Meatball down on the floor and try to gather the sculpture shards into the towel.
“I shouldnotbe left unsupervised!”
I manage to scoop up the last few pieces of the wreckage. My fingers tremble, partly from the stress, partly because my pregnancy hormones are now in full force, making everything feel like the end of the world.
I look at the broken sculpture in my hands, contemplating my next move.
“I’m going to have to glue it back together with something, aren’t I?” I say aloud to Meatball, who’s sniffing the floor like he’s looking for hidden treasure. “Oh God, I’ll ask Nick.”
I really do need tea. Tea will fix this.
Spoiler: tea does not fix this.
Because while I’m hunting for the kettle, I somehow manage to bump into the espresso machine. And by bump, I mean knock it sideways as if I’m a hormonal Godzilla.
It makes a very bad sound.
I freeze.
Coffee pods go skittering across the marble like sad little hockey pucks, and water is pooling on the counter as if I’m trying to flood the kitchen out of spite.
I just stand there, wide eyed, clutching a teabag, thinking:This is my life.A woman who kills coffee machines and Danish art before noon.
Art that probably cost more than my student loan.
I lock Meatball in the room with his bed while I clean up the mess because I can only deal with one issue at a time.
I’mreallystarting to need a break…
In my defense, all I wanted was smooth legs.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. A little self-care after the morning I’ve had. A hot shower. Maybe I’d even exfoliate, pretend I was the kind of woman with a five-step skincare routine instead of one who eats crackers over the sink and uses Nick’s body wash that smells of pine and masculine secrets.
But Nick’s shower? Oh no. Nick’s shower is not a shower. It’s astatement.
It’s one of those glass-enclosed, minimalist spa torture boxes with ten confusing chrome knobs, a rain head the size of a manhole cover, and an LED touchscreen that probably links to NORAD on the wall outside.
Everything is matte black, sexy, and completely unintuitive. Something Batman might use to rinse off crime.
It takes me ten whole minutes just to get the water to a temperature that doesn’t feel as hot as Satan’s back sweat. And once I’m finally in, legs propped awkwardly on a built-in shelf that’s definitely not meant for shaving, things are going okay.
Until I reach for my towel, hanging on the wall.
My elbow hits a panel.
A button beeps. Then another.
