“If you hand me that towel, I’m gonna shank you,” he tells me.
“I don’t know why I would—”
“If you hand me that towel, I’m going to shank you,” he says, this time slower. His left hand cups around an imaginary shoulder. He locks eyes with me as the right hand makes a fist, pumping a stabbing motion into an imaginary chest.
“Okay. I won’t hand you the towel!”
“No. Hand me the towel!”
“Hand me the fucking towel!
“Why? You’re just gonna shank me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You said it! Just now!”
“Oh, that…” he waves a dismissive palm, pushing his lips out into a kissy-face. We lock eyes and the palm turns into a fist. His face steels up again.
“But if you hand me that towel,” he says, “I’ll kill you.” His eyes widen, unblinking. Then he laughs, an open-mouthed cackle that stabs through the air.
“You’re fucking nuts! I’m leaving.” I slam the door behind me, but I can still hear that laugh. It gets louder, no mirth to it at all. He just wants me to hear it from behind the door.
Why do we have to go through this every morning?