The Shower

…The shower is hot, wet, and smells clean even when there’s no soap. I wear glasses so the shower is also a blind place for me – everything shows up in blurred blobs – is that my shampoo? Where’s the damned body wash? Did he move it? I’m always feeling streaks of skin along my legs, if I bother to shave them, to check if I’m finished shaving. The feeling of a razor against my skin when I’m in such a vulnerable state always feels threatening, the glide of the sharpness against my wet, exposed skin, all while I’m too blind to tell if I’m ripping off a hunk of it until it’s too late. I don’t do quiet showers; I listen to country music almost every time, letting the twang of my childhood fill up and share the room with the steam. I don’t listen to it because it reminds me of home, quite the opposite. I listen to it in spite of it reminding me of home and because I know all the words. I love to sing. I was told I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I don’t believe it because in the shower, I sound just like Mary Chapin Carpenter, if only I strain my voice. And my ear. I let it rip when I belt out “I Take My Chances,” smearing the shampoo all over my scalp and defiantly refusing to worry about it seeping down into my eyes because I take my chances, duh. I like washing my hair. It’s dry, so I don’t do it very often, and when I do, the feeling of my fingers massaging the cool, gelatinous texture of my shampoo into my by-then oily scalp while almost-too-hot water pelts down on the crown of my head takes me away from myself. Getting out of the shower, on the other hand, sucks just as much as leaving the bed a second time. In a hot shower, I can almost sleep standing up…

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