Little Things by Ray Scanlon

On my way to the bathroom I stumble over the vacuum cleaner hose she left in the hall, and jar loose an f-word. I sponge up a lake around the basin, rinse crusty toothpaste off the hot-water knob, set the toothbrush back onto its charger. Flirting with retaliation, I think of her throaty diaphragm-driven laugh: a sonic Duchenne smile, not the faux soprano version she uses to punctuate voice mails. I lower the seat.

© 2011 Ray Scanlon

Ray Scanlon. Massachusetts boy. Has grandchildren. Extraordinarily lucky. No MFA. No novel. No extrovert. On the web: http://read.oldmanscanlon.com

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