She heard the noise of a full blown food fight once she had turned the shower off. He was just as bad as they were — she could see him in her mind’s eye with globs of pancake batter (that she had made in preparation of making breakfast) running down his face, his beard stopping it from splattering his chest and bathrobe.
She had been right about the mess. From the bathroom door, she could see into the living room — scattered couch cushions, an overturned side table, the contents of one of the girls’ overnight bags strewn across the carpet. She was so concentrated on the condition of the apartment (which no doubt would somehow end up being her responsibility to clean up), she didn’t see the patch of damp directly in her path. She slipped on it and went down like a ton of bricks. The sound of her head hitting the wall was so loud it actually stopped Gus in mid-arm throw.
After making her own way to the only clutter-free armchair in the corner of the living room, the one thing Christina noticed as she pressed loose ice cubes wrapped in a towel to her right temple, was that Gus’s daughters seemed more concerned about the dizziness and the clotting blood than he did.
Food Fight – Fragment #62