My wife warned the kids this morning about the bunny man.
We were eating cereal—me and the kids that is, Melinda never eats breakfast—and she gasped while holding the paper, half folded in front of her where she always stands behind the kitchen island drinking coffee without sugar or milk.
“He’s done it again Mitchel,” she said, looking at me with her lips all scrunched up and pale, so tight she’d squeezed the life from them. “Kids, there is a pervert-” she caught herself then. Melinda hates introducing new words she’s uncomfortable explaining to the kids.
After a breath, she started again, “There is a dangerous monster. He looks like a man with a bunny head. If you see anything like that, run and scream till an adult comes.”
My daughter Sarah, who is the oldest, and bravest, raised her hand and said, “What is he wearing?”
“His birthday suit.” Melinda said.
The kids were pale too after that.
I wonder if they’d still be afraid if they knew they were talking about me.
Milk of the Mind 