I was sitting in my apartment in Soho when a shield broke my window. It flew straight through my living room, hit the drywall, and clattered to a tinny halt next to my bookshelf of Jane Austen.
I looked up from my laptop, raised an eyebrow at my grandpa climbing through the window, and went back to typing. "You know, I have a door."
Grandpa Steve scoops up his trademark shield and sets it on the sculpture I made last month, the one that looks like an Egyptian footstool. He pulls the mask over his head and smiles at me, the smile that a million women would melt for. "I'm working, honey," he says, "How are things in the artist business?"
"Fine, not that you give a rat's ass about how I'm doing here. You hardly visit anymore."
"Well, the gang and I have been a little busy of late…" He trails off as a loud crash echoes from across the street.
I point with my head. "Go on, I know the city is under attack. Come back when you know how to ring a doorbell, you ice cube."
He snorts and puts his mask back on. "Always a pleasure, Megan," and he is gone, leaping onto something that whooshes past what is left of my window. I still can't get over the fact that he looks so much younger than me.