All My Firends Are Superheroes - Andrew Kaufman (2)

'Think about your girlfriend,' Ambrose commanded.

'My wife,' Tom said.

'Whatever, just picture her face.'

Tom pictured the Perfectionist's face.

'Now picture her best feature,' Ambrose instructed.

Tom pictured the Perfectionist's nose. He felt Ambrose's hand on his heart. Tom took shallow breaths. Ambrose reached behind his heart. He squeezed form underneath and quick line of blood squired up, hitting Ambrose face.

'That might be it,' Ambrose said, reaching to his back pocket, grabbing the rag and wiping of his face.

'What? What is it?'

'When was the last time you had this cleaned?'

'I never had it cleaned.'

'Exactly,' Ambrose said.

---

Someone knocked on her door.

'Just ignore it and it'll go away,' the Perfectionist said.

She leaned in closer. Tom felt her breath on his lips. There was another knock.

'I'll... I'll get it,' said Tom.

The Perfectionist sighed. Tom wiped his hand on his jeans. He got off the couch and opened the door. He had almost no time to react - the monster at the door was struggling to claw his face off.

Tom slammed the door shut. He locked it. He put his back to it. The thing stated screaming. It sounded like a blender.

'Was it tall?' the Perfectionist asked him.

'What?' Tom yelled. The thing was screaming very loudly.

'Was it tall?'

'Yes!'

'Pointed fingernails?'

'Yes!'

'Long, scabby arms?'

'Yes!'

'It smelled like cigarettes and cough syrup?'

'That's it!'

'That's an anxiety monster,' she said. 'I'm having a bath.'

'What?' Tom screamed.

'It's for you, not me. I'm having a bath,' she stated. Tom didn't reply. His back remained firmly pressed to her front door. She saw the look of terror in his eyes.

'Do you love me? she asked him.

[...]

'Do you love me?' the Perfectionist repeated.

'Yes' Tom said.

'Then trust me. I'm going to have a bath.'

The Perfectionist got off the couch. She walked around her living room collecting objects: candles, a lighter, a portable tape deck. She carried these thing into the bathroom. The bathroom door closed.

Tom heard her filling the bathtub. The tape deck played Motown. He sat on the couch with his legs pulled up to his chest as the Anxiety Monster's fingers ripped splinters from the door. It started throwing its weight against the door. The hinges came away from the wall. The Monster slammed into the door again. The door-hinge screws were three-quarters out. Tom was overwhelmed. He fainted.

When he woke up, two hours later, the Perfectionist was playing solitaire. She looked over at him. She smiled. She looked back at her cards.

'Feel better?' she asked.

He did. There was no sign of the Anxiety Monster.

'What happened?' he asked her.

'It left,' she said. She moved a black nine onto a red ten.

'It just left?'

'There are two ways to get rid of an anxiety monster, my friend - either you take a bath or a nap.'