I rise up from the bed, Jill fumbles for purchase on my passing arm. I almost put the dirtied hand to my lips; using the other numbly-fumbly hand, I dig crusts of puke out from the corners of my lips. I'm groggy as hell; that shower might just help.
When I get to the bathroom, I strip slowly. All my body parts are lumpy and scarred. Years of weight gain and loss had left me with a ponderous belly, and perky man tits. I roll my eyes in annoyance of myself. When I have everything off, I tuck my clothes in the wicker hamper, just as I had since childhood; I inherited Mom's hamper when she died, back in 1991. I put my watch on the counter; it looks lonely without my wrist to fill it; the sad little thing has a frayed strap, and pitted metal rim.
I turn the taps on, struggling with the cold knob, as usual. It takes a while to get to my desired temperature -- adjust, adjust, adjust. I hop in. The hot spray of the shower dulls my ill will for Jill's dirty vagina. A foamy, cotton-y white lather of soap washes off traces of whoever she was with tonight. I start thinking; wondering how long I slept is a matter of triviality. I didn't know what day it was when I got here. I stand, face against the spray. My mouth opens for the downpour to bounce out of. My throat feels dry and evil. With a woofing cough, I spit water out and bare my back back to the lobster-hot spray. The fog in here reminds of me what it feels like inside my head just now.
The knobs don't want to turn off, when I'm done -- especially hot this time. I dance around, dodging boiling water. My days of working on the railroad are long gone, taking with them the easy strength of the times. Joints that feel disconnected scrabble over unyielding stainless steel. Slowly, but surely, I make progress, and can finally escape the tub. I get a lot of rewards from the life I lead, mostly not beneficial ones. The throbbing in my head is one such reward. Such a token of treasure.
The towel on the floor feels like a million silverfish are camping underneath it. They probably are. My toes wiggle on their own accord. The fan did nothing to clear out the steam. There are yellowish trails all around this cinderblock room. No doubt from the last tenants, seeping out to steal my damage deposit. I know that my landlord, Darla the Dainty, would not be impressed with the state of this bathroom -- hairs, dust, tissues, Q-Tips, you name it, ever-ah-ee-where. The detritus is littered with curlicued hairs. Not mine, no. Definitely Jill's, because Corrina's hair is long and poker-straight. I haven't had hair like this since my aborted years in college. I don't dare imagine explaining these hairs to Corrina. With some guilt, I take a tissue and wipe around the sink, to hide some of my infidelities.
The towel I use to rub down my random-patched hairy body has even more of Jill's hair. She's not scared to rub her head with something that rubs my balls dry, apparently. The hair on me, before the towel, I've chocked up to my teen years of hallucinogenics abuse. I find myself at 47, and unable to otherwise explain my hairy angel wings.
Jill is waiting, and I'm debating changing my locks. Oh, well.
I wipe the mirror with the edge of my towel. A non-descript face peers out at me, unimpressed. Great. Even the man in the mirror disapproves. Thankfully, my head-on collision with Jimmy's fence didn't ruin my face too much. Stupid bruised forehead, though.
At least I know who I am: Joe Collins, 47, unemployed. The girl in my bedroom is my favorite Downtown Debbie. Actually, I don't pay for her services anymore; she comes for snacks and shelter, sometimes, when the dealers are circling. I guess that makes her my mistress now. So sue me; I know she's 17, I've seen her ID. She's close to being legal for porn, and that counts enough for me. We're condom-friendly in Joe's joint, so I'm less worried about AIDS and gonorrhea. Hookin's illegal, as with her age. Here, we don't worry about that, either.
I head back to the bedroom, towel hanging pert on my crooked hanger.
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