Whacha gonna do

3:30 a.m.
Rustling in the kitchen, and what sounds like ice clinking in a glass.
"A****, is that you?"
Silence.
"A****?"
The hum of the refrigerator ebbs, and I think, "Oh, must have been the motor."

4:00 a.m.
More noise from the kitchen.
Oh God, I think, Crazy ex-Boyfriend has finally broken in. I'm scared for a minute, then think, No, Fuck that shit, after all he did to me? ONE of us will leave this house, and it's gonna be me, singing Cell-block Tango at the top of my lungs.

But part of me is very, very scared. SO scared, in fact, that I realize constipation will not be one of today's problems.

More rustling, but I can't fathom the exact location from atop the pile of blankets and pillows that raise me on the bed as far as possible from the floor. The cupboards? The porch? The oven?

It's probably a rat, I decide, but what do I do? I sleep naked, and I should act quickly. My knee high black boots, those could protect me against rat bites. But what if I have to call the police? What if it IS J***, and the police come and I'm naked in high black boots holding a knife against his throat? (Yeah, the irony.) What if it IS a rat, and I call the police, and they think I'm one of those weirdo pervs that likes to stomp rodents? (I swear, all of this went through my mind.) And boots without stockings make me feet sweat-do I have any stockings nearby? What do I do???

So, from atop my perch, I reach over to the bureau and throw a water bottle into the kitchen. Then a flip flop. And a sneaker, and a vitamin water bottle, (hey, you should keep hydrated, even at night) then a shoe box and a deodorant.

Nothing for ten minutes, then rustling. By this point, I'm pretty sure it's from the oven or stove area.

I turn on the light in the bedroom. Nothing happens. I put on one flip flop and creep into the living room to turn on the light. Nothing. I sneak around into the far side of the kitchen and turn on that light. Nothing. I step forward and trip on the sneaker.

I walk gingerly closer to the stove, and keeping back as far as possible, naked ass sticking out Betty Boop style, sporting one neon green flip flop, reach over and turn the oven to broil.

Smells like chicken, I think, laughing, but close to tears.