My aqua-green bathroom is in the middle of the house, on the main
floor. It's the warmest room in the house because we're afraid of
frozen pipes. The shower curtain is dark blue and when I'm the shower,
thinking, it seems like nearly night time. There's a window to the
backyard, next to the sink. What I've seen through the window: trees,
my husband, my daughter, squirrel brothers, deer, a hawk, the white cat
from next door.
When I have a special request I write it on the window, in the shower
fog. I write it backwards, facing the rest of the world. It's the only
writing I do in there.
If you cut me open and assembled my innards on a tray, among them would
be an aqua-green tile. It would stand upright and survey the swollen
mess around it. It would smell faintly of bleach and toothpaste. But at
all times on a winter day, it would be warm to the touch.
- - -
Read EF's story, "Orange."
w i g · l e a F