T-Rex in the Toilet

By S. Mack

I got up before my roommate could beat me into the bathroom, and started going through my morning routine. You know, face cleansers and all that fun stuff.

Then the toilet started gurgling. Loudly. And it scared me.

I jumped and dropped my hairbrush, spun around, saw that nobody was there, and screamed bloody murder.

Because that, of course, meant one of two things: there was either somebody there I couldn't see, or there was a t-rex in the toilet.

I screamed again, mostly because it was bubbling in my chest and looking to be let out.

Sean came running, bleary-eyed and in his boxers and an old shirt with paint on it. "What? What is it?"

I screamed again and jumped onto the counter. "Don't do that!" I sobbed. My poor heart was beating so hard it was going to stop, I could just feel it.

"Don't do what? What the hell is going on!"

"You scared me!"

"You were screaming!"

"The toilet scared me!"

He opened his mouth to yell back, then stopped, a puzzled look coming over his face. "The toilet scared you?"

"The toilet scared me!" I yelled again.

He stood in the doorway to the bathroom for a long moment, wearing a cross between puzzlement and incredulity on his face. Then he blinked, and his face cleared as he started laughing. I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest. "What are you laughing at? It was scary!"

"The toilet scared you," he chuckled, and wandered out.

"Yeah, it scared me!" I followed him. "It made all these weird, guttery noises and sucked up all the water! Go look if you don't believe me; I bet the water's still not in the bowl."

He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Guttery noises," he repeated, "You woke up half the goddamned apartment—including me, by the way—on a Saturday morning because the toilet made guttery noises?"

"Well—" I didn't like the foolish feeling that was creeping over me, so I reverted to my original argument. "Well, it scared me. What if—what if somebody had been after me? You wouldn't be making fun of me then—well, I mean, I'd like to hope you wouldn't, 'cause that'd be even scarier than the toilet."

He rolled his eyes as he began to gather the pancake materials. "You want some pancakes, while I'm at it?"

"You wouldn't make fun of me if somebody were after me, would you?" I pressed.

He sighed, his head in the cupboard as he searched for the skillet. "Do you want some pancakes or not?"

"Yes. And the skillet's in the dishwasher. We didn't put it away last time."

"Thanks," he said, closing the cupboard door and moving to the dishwasher. "And no, I wouldn't make fun of you."

"Good," I said, mock-haughtily. I wandered over to the table and sat down, paging through the funnies.

We sat (or rather, I sat and he stood and cooked) in silence for a while, and when he'd mixed the batter he looked up and asked, "How many?"

I didn't look up from the comics. "How many whats?"

"Pancakes."

"Oh. Um… big ones or silver dollar ones?"

"Either."

"Okay… three big ones?"

"Three?" he repeated, "Are you sure you can eat all that?"

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "And just what is that supposed to mean, buster brown?"

He waved a hand, dismissing it after having decided it wasn't worth pursuing. Good for him. "Nothing, nothing." He turned back to the stove, and I looked up from the funnies and smiled sweetly.

"And do you want to put a couple waffles in the toaster oven for me?"

He chuckled. "In your dreams, Car."

I blinked, then my smile grew. "You called me Car."

He paused for a moment, one hand holding the bowl of pancake batter and the other clutching the wooden stirring spoon. "So?"

I shrugged and decided that waffles sounded like too much work if I had to do it myself. "You've always called me Carmen."

"So?" he asked again, resuming his cooking.

I shrugged again, "It's just an observation."

"Would you rather I call you Carmen? Everybody else shortens your name."

I shook my head. "No, no—I just… wondered, I guess, because you were the only one who never did."

He snorted, though not as if he was in a foul mood. "Oh, so now I'm a sheep."

"No," I protested, "You, of all people, could never—never, ever, ever—be a sheep. You're too…"

He smiled arrogantly. "Independent? Thoughtful?"

"Bull headed for that."

"Oh, thanks," he muttered, and I chuckled.

"Anytime, m'dear."

"You know what?" he continued, as if he hadn't heard me speak. "Just for that, I'm not making you any pancakes."

I shrugged and stared hard at the newspaper, trying not to grin. "That's okay. I'll just mooch off your plate."

"No you won't!"

My grin widened. "Want to bet?"

His eyes narrowed, and he said slowly, "You are not going to eat my pancakes," then turned back around to cook said precious pancakes.

I decided to let it go until the pancakes were done—at least a few of them, anyway. "Whatever." But I kept an eye on him as he cooked, and when he flipped a few off the skillet and onto a plate, I got up very slowly, taking care to not make any noise

with my the chair. I crept up behind him, then my hand shot out and snatched a pancake off his plate. By the time he turned around, it was half gone.

Or at least, that had been how it was supposed to happen. That was how it would have happened if the gosh-darned pancake hadn't been so big, and if it hadn't required two hands to snatch off the plate.

His hand enveloped my wrist, and my shoulders slumped forward a little. I pouted. "Curse you, Pancake Man. Foiled again."

He laughed and let my hand go, and then I darted forward and grabbed the pancake. His mouth opened in surprise, and it was a full heartbeat and a half before he remembered to yell at me. "Woman, give me back my pancake!"

But I was already out of the kitchen and racing towards my room, cackling wildly. "You'll never catch me now, Pancake Man!"

"Give me back my pancake!" he roared, and I glanced back quickly and shrieked. He was right on my tail!

"Go away!" I howled, darting around the couch, "You stupid fast person, leave me and my pancake alone in peace!"

He leapt over it, like he was Jackie Chan. "That's my pancake! I made it, I get to eat it!"

"Stop being so immature!" I shouted back, "Didn't anybody ever teach you how to share?"

"Immature? Immature?"

I squeaked as he dove at me and missed by a hair.

I skittered into my room and slammed the door shut behind me, locking it. Hah! Success!

Sean pounded on the door. "Carmen!"

He didn't actually think I was going to open it for him, did he? "Yes, m'dear? Can I help you?"

I heard him chuckling, and I frowned, an uneasy feeling taking seed in my gut. "What's so funny?" I asked.

"You forgot the syrup!" he crowed.

Crap.