My head is a mop. The water slips over my face and bare legs as my feet slosh around at the bottom of the tub. The drain is clogged, full of my hair, and the shower water pooling at my feet is dirty. It’s the first time I’ve showered in weeks. I was too lazy to unclog the drain so I put off showering until the delivery kid wrinkled his nose when I answered the door and coughed as I handed him a tip. Now the tub is half full- though I’m not an optimist- and I kind of wish I had leak-proof shower doors instead of a curtain so that I could let the whole thing fill up above my head and leave me floating face down. I can’t do that though- my mother would kill me.

I called in sick. “It’s the flu. I have the flu.” The boss’s assistant asked when I’d be back and I told her I wasn’t sure but I’d let her know after I went to the doctor. Then I sat at my kitchen counter for four hours nursing a glass of warm gin. Five glasses. Six. I woke up on the floor and called my therapist before realizing after the third ring that it was four in the morning and she wasn’t going to pick up. The tile under my face was slippery and my hair was matted in drool and I thought to myself, I should shower. I almost did, but then I remembered that there was construction on the Eastside so the 4/5 trains were running local all week and that the cheap laundry place down the street was closing. So why even bother? I lapped at the drool on the floor to stay hydrated.

“The fish died.” “When?” “Yesterday.” I had just gotten out of the shower and was pulling wet hair off my hands and smearing it onto the mirror. “Its three a.m.” “I miss you” “I know” I put the phone down in the sink and let it sit there until I heard the single-note ring that told me the line was dead. He killed it, and my whole body was still covered in hair. I rinsed out the shower and watched the hair slither across the tub in ribbons. I knew the drain was just dripping in slimy strings of my hair and that the pipes would be clogged and I would have to call him again and he would have to come fix it. And then he would say that this place was a pig-sty and that I couldn’t let the fish stay floating face up in the toilet bowl. I should just flush it. I let the drain fill up with my hair and gunk that I scrubbed off my scalp until there was blood under my nails, and then I closed the toilet lid and didn’t flush. Let the place fill up, give the pipes a break. You’ve put them through enough. 

There was a morning where I woke up and missed the sun. The shades were pulled down and I could see light pushing through the cracks. The light pooled at the wrinkles surrounding the indent he left on his side of the bed. The fish food sat next to the bowl on my nightstand and without getting up, I opened the jar and dumped the flakes onto the floor. I hadn’t touched his side of the bed because I didn’t want to ruin the way he left the sheets. I didn’t want to stain the way they smelled. He left three days before. “I’m not coming back. Call if you have the urge to jump” he said. I hung blankets over the windows to cover the cracks in the blinds. No light seeped in.

“I love you.” “Do you really?” “Yes.” “Even my hair?” “I love your hair.” “My head looks like a mop.” “I love mops, then.” “I love you too.”