As I turn the faucet on, Simon appears at my elbow.
“What are you doing?”
I answer cheerfully, “I’m getting a glass of water, because I’m thirsty. What are you doing?”
He blurts out, cutting off the end of my question, “Why?”
I stare at him, unsure of the answer he wants to hear.
He stares back at me, then gives me a maniacal laugh, and runs off.
I am no longer so certain that his daily, inexorable siege against my sanity is as innocently unintentional as I had thought.