Clogged

The disposal is clogged again.

It isn’t a terrible surprise. No one in the house seems to understand that it can’t grind spoons to a drainable pulp. As much as I hate to do it, I roll up my sleeve and stick my hand down the disposal.

At these times I always second guess the wiring. That’s normal I suppose. We’re all pretty attached to our lim… Is this hair? Matted up chunks of black hair are all intwined in the mechanics of the disposal. I turn my head and push deeper into the disposal until I notice a smiling 2 foot figure sitting on the counter. My daughter’s realistic dolls always give me the willies. Why is it up there? I turn to look at the drain once more. It’s too dark to see anything in there.

I hear the sound of rustling cloth and quick, light footsteps. I turn my head again expecting to see my daughter, but instead the doll was standing by the light switches. I can now see the patch of black hair missing from the back of its head. I look down towards the drain with the sudden realization that I needed to pull my hand out, now.

I hear another rustle, and the click of a flipped switch.