by Jessica Lafortune
It happened slowly, the evidence of the shift imperceptible, left discretely around the house for those with eyes to see. She didn’t, at first. One night, she felt her way into the bathroom in the dark, lowered herself onto porcelain, and was nearly swallowed, her lower half steeped in the icy cold, the seat left decidedly up. This was a first, and, being gracious, she forgave the oversight and asked him to please be more considerate. A few weeks later, when she made the same mid-night trip and her bare bottom was slapped awake by a wall of solid plastic, the lid left suspiciously closed, she nearly peed herself and gave him hell over breakfast. But this morning, when she woke busting and bloated, released the mother lode, and then reached for paper only to find the roll bare, without so much as a thread to dab her mess, she knew there was mutiny afoot; she rose, crossed her legs and waddled like a mermaid to where he had disrobed, picked up his shorts and ran them back and forth like a saw between her cheeks, folds, crack, and in between, and then placed them neatly folded in the back of his drawer, giggling like a school girl as she sauntered off to make the coffee.
Jessica Lafortune is a teacher, tutor, and freelance writer. She lives in Florida surrounded by humans and canines who (barely) tolerate her obsessive reading and writing habits.