"Where is that damn hoover?" She talked to herself. She did that a lot when I was living with her. Can't say it bothered me. I got a kick out of it once in a while. The things she'd say without realizing, and then telling me and my brother to "not say those words when other people are around" made it priceless.
Ah, she found the hoover. The things it's suctioning sound like sand. When did I get that on my floor?
Well, whatever. I still don't know what I'm going to tell her when I get out. Not like it'd matter. I'm sure that, regardless of plan, it'll fall on the wayside because of mom. You have to be good at improvising at life to deal with her. The things you think about when you're in a bathroom. This's some deep shit that I never thought about. C- Oh, she stopped. Is she going to make food now? I can't handle this. I'm coming out.
And there she is, on the couch, hands crossed, glaring towards me. I smile.