Syndi Teller, swathed in a thick, fluffy bathrobe the colour of the summer sky, stepped out into the hallway. Her bare feet left damp prints on the short-pile carpet as she padded downstairs, using a small hand towel to pat her dripping hair as she walked. Abruptly she stopped, running her fingers through the wet and tangled mass, and cursed.
"Shampoo bubbles again?" asked her brother from his seat on the couch. He didn't so much as glance up from his magazine as he spoke.
"Yeah," said Syndi, turning back towards the staircase. "I think it's this new brand Mom's been buying, I can never get all the lather out on the first try."
"You know," said Marshall, setting aside his comic book and turning to look at her over the back of the settee, "There could be a way around it-"
"Marshall, if you're about to tell me that the ghost of Hans Schwarzkopf is hanging about in our shower and I need to sacrifice a plate of bratwurst to get him to keep his foamy leavings out of my hair, I don't want to hear it."
Marshall looked hurt.
"I was going to say, use the massage setting on your hair before you put the shampoo on, so it's really wet," he said. "That's all."
"Oh," said Syndi. "Sorry."
Marshall laughed.
"I was just messing with you," he said. "It's probably a nuisance imp jamming up the water flow. Put some beer in the bottom of Mom's mixing bowl and leave it outside the stall next time you're in there. It should fall in and drown."
He went back to his magazine. Syndi stood for a long moment, one hand resting lightly on the bannister, staring at the back of his head.
She turned, heading for the kitchen.
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froodle
