We’re Not Speaking.

When I attempted to sneak back home near dawn, she was there on the porch in her orange wig, red nose and white pancake makeup. She pointed at an invisible watch on her wrist and then drew the finger across her throat. I got the pantomime.

“But—!” I start but am shushed with the same silent finger. She flaps down the steps in her over-sized shoes.

“But—!” I start again but she smiles and points to the doghouse.

What I wouldn’t give for a shot of seltzer or pie in the face. 

It’s the mime treatment I hate.