I pulled back the shower curtain and there it was.

It sat underneath the faucet, oblivious to the slow but steady drip. . .drip. . .drip falling onto its plump, green back. It regarded me with a blank stare, and though I knew it was impossible, I could have sworn I saw irritation and impatience in its shiny black eyes. As if this was his shower and I was the intruder.

A frog was nothing to be afraid of, even one of this size, but it took a moment for my heart to settle.

I glanced around for an instrument of removal. I didn’t particularly believe I was in any danger of warts, but it was nevertheless outside of my quality world to touch the frog with my bare hands. I happened upon the little trash can under the sink and grabbed it, planning to somehow convince my guest that leaping inside was its best option.

I turned back to execute my strategy, but the frog was gone. Just like that. I set the trash can back in its place, undressed, and took my shower, frowning all the while.