Issue 03
Don’t Touch the Glass Rebecca Kilroy
Timothy came out of the bath bright blue and shrieking, tentacles flailing like hysterical snakes. I bundled him into his favorite towel–the one with the duck’s face on the hood–and hugged him to my chest. “Shhh, it’s okay.” We rocked on the edge of the tub. I whispered soothing words as the blue ebbed from his skin, the tentacles shrank into chubby fingers, and the beak retracted into a mouth of crooked baby teeth. “There’s my perfect boy. It’s all done now.” I carried him across the hall to clean pajamas and a dry bed. He was asleep before I tucked him in. I stepped back and looked at him in the golden glow of the sailboat nightlight. A clump of blond curls fell across his face. His cheeks puffed out with deep, sleepy breaths. He looked like a cherub in a Renaissance painting, divinely untroubled. I risked waking him and pressed one last kiss to his clammy forehead. “Goodnight, my angel.” I could’ve collapsed right there on the floor and slept the night. Instead, I dragged myself down the hall. There was a crack of light under my door. Ian was waiting up. “How was it this time?” he asked, glancing up from his book. “Fine.” In the dim light of the bedside lamp he couldn’t see the wet patches on my shirt or the red outline of a tentacle across my cheek. “Don’t forget you’re picking him up from daycare tomorrow. He thinks you’re going for ice cream.” 22
