Don't laugh. Don't scoff. Don't sneer. Those things live under beds, and you know it. If you'll be honest with yourself, really honest with yourself, so honest that you're once again in touch with the child within, you'll admit that it's always in the back of your mind when you have to step out of bed during the middle of the night.
I got back in bed with my wife, and put the heating pad on her neck for a while. I started kneading her neck and upper back, but after a few minutes, I decided I needed a better position. I grabbed a chair and pulled it next to the bed. Preoccupied with my wife's discomfort, I stuck my feet under the box spring.
I'd been working on her neck for just a few minutes when I felt the dry tentacle wrap around my ankle. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't, especially when I felt a nibble on my big toe.
"Honey, has it been a week?"
"Yeah, I think he's due to surface tonight."
Sometimes we didn't see him for eight or nine days at a stretch, but usually he emerged at weekly intervals. Thoughts of getting back to sleep went down the drain. I wondered if he just wanted to visit, or engage in one of his epic wrestling matches.
They can only come out from under the bed once a week, at most. I guess it's some kind of rule. I pushed the chair back and leaned to the floor. "C'mon, Barney."
He slithered up to the crook of my elbow, and I could tell that he wasn't in the mood to wrestle. I cradled him in my arms and placed him next to my wife. "Hi, Barney," she said, petting the blob that passed for his head. Barney looks a bit like an octopus, but not as pretty.
He purred a bed monster purr, and as I returned to tending to my wife's pains, she purred too.
Prompted by Thom G's Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are drain, epic, and nibble.