We are at our neighborhood library, Saturday afternoon. My sons are in the children’s section looking for adventure novels appropriate to their ages, my wife had been at the computer studying the online catalogue for books about the Washington coast. I am sitting on the bench beside the Staff’s Pick’s shelf lost in a short story about a young couple dismantling their marriage while brushing their teeth. Life drama exploding in a bathroom. The juxtaposition of tragedy and plumbing. Brilliant.
But now my wife’s finger tapping on my shoulder.
“Go to the men’s room.”
She tells me our eight-year-old is in there. She’s worried. “He’s pooping,” she says.
“He’s old enough to take care of himself,” I say.
My wife shakes her head at me. “There are people out there. In the hallway by the bathroom. Go stand guard.”
I sigh at her. That never works, but I…
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