The little monkey sat at my feet, a toothless grin upon his lips. I gazed down on his blazing red hair and then swivelled my eyes towards the top of my own head, where I knew a fiery mane of hair also sat.
I levelled my eyes, staring at Monica. She raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Convinced yet? I did not invite her in. I would not accept her and her ball of drool into my home. Because to let them in would be the ruin of my life as I knew it. And didn't I love living on my own, in the peace and quiet of my empty apartment? Didn't I adore getting up at 1 PM on weekends? Didn't I live for nights out on the town?
Yes. Yes, I did.
So we stood there, her on my front step, hands on hips, and me in the porch, grasping the doorknob with inhuman strength. The poop-maker sat between us.
"It's time you started acting like a father," she said.
I rolled my eyes. The kid had to be almost a year old. I had a sneaking suspicion that she had wanted me to start being a father right around the time she realized she didn't have time enough for a kid, what with her busy schedule of tattoo appointments and biker parties.
I looked back down at the wail-box. He happily had his fist stuck in his mouth, saliva running down his chubby arm.
Two hours later and I sat, exhausted, on my leather couch. The armrest was sticky from spilled applejuice. I had somehow managed to get baby poop on my face and creamed corn up my nose. The destroyer snoozed next to me, his hair matted with the corn.
I sat there for awhile, looking at this strange creature in my usually pristine home. Then something happened; I'm not sure how it happened, or why, but for some reason I couldn't help thinking that Benjamin wasn't such a bad kid...for my own.