Exercise #7 - Bryr

It hurt to pee so bad she crushed the toilet paper roll in a fist against her chest. The fluorescent bulb overhead blanched her spread thighs, the top layers of skin transparent above snaking spider veins and hair follicles. She ran a wad of paper under the faucet and held the cold pulp between her legs as scratches rose and bruises sank in the opaque flesh above her knees. She hoped he’d stay back there, hoped he’d fallen asleep. If he came out, he’d talk to her through the door, ask if she was okay. It wouldn’t be a question, it would be an agreement. The bathroom was frilly and upholstered with a cushioned toilet seat and a plush floor mat. No mildew clung to the ceiling corners or crept up the wall beneath the pedestal sink. No slick of standing grey water on the linoleum. On the wall hung three pastel prints of seashells and starfish, a series. Everything coordinated, swatch matched. Salmon, she thought. No, coral. She stood carefully and flushed the toilet. Noticed the stack of Redbooks in a magazine rack below. The L’air du Temps uncapped by the toothbrushes. His electric shaver in its perch, charging light flashing below. When she flipped off the switch, a seahorse night light glowed pink on the wall near the door stopper. At least what she needed most of her clothes had been discarded long before they made it to the back bedroom. She pulled the crumpled shirt from where it had been stuffed between the sofa cushions, the jeans from where they’d collapsed below the kitchen counter. Once she had her shoes and her coat, she moved for the door, bowlegged and wincing. She stopped in front of the coat rack and held herself for a moment, reconsidering. Her jeans were still damp from the rainy evening before and her raw skin stung under the chap of the denim. She had to get the rest. She couldn’t just leave it there. She moved back down the hallway, slowly, unaware of where her motion would trigger the apartment’s subtle alarms, a creaking floorboard, the crack of a shifting joist. She begged the plaster walls for him to be asleep. The air in the bedroom was dank and stale, the lamp in the corner gave a warm yellow light. He lay on his back, head turned into a pillow, arms and legs out at his sides, his breath in his belly. The sheets and comforter clung in a tangled roll to the foot of the bed and she dug carefully for her panties, her socks. Her bra hung from a high backed wooden chair in front of an old fashioned looking vanity. It had an arching mirror and spindled legs, covered in brushes and make-up, cotton balls and bottles of lotion. A silky robe was tossed across the seat of the chair. Before she left, she stared at his face, shaking. There had been something in the eyes, something that betrayed his lightness, his nonchalance, but she’d ignored it and now it was gone. She slipped back into the hallway. The next door down was open only an inch or two. A plastic horse head was faintly lit within and she pushed the door back far enough to see into the little girl’s room. Stuffed animals peeked from under the bed, in orderly but sentimental disuse. The bedspread was a demure floral but the sheets were a Disney print. Little tennis shoes tumbled next to shiny little patent leather strapped heels. Seven, she thought. Just seven. In the corner, a blue beanbag sat next to a little CD player. She stepped back out into the hall and listened – he had begun to snore deeply. She stepped back inside, gently pushed the door closed, and flipped on the light. She looked at the beanbag for a long time before she turned and lowered herself slowly into it. Made for a child, it tightened around her hips and lower back but would not allow her to lay back. The dirty underwear she still gripped in one hand she shoved deep into her jacket pocket. She picked up the set of foam headphones that dangled from the CD player and put them on. Across the room, the plastic horse peered from the little desk. A cup with crayons and color pencils lay on its side across a drawing pad. Balls of dirty socks and colored underwear huddled in the corner behind the door. She reached over and pressed ‘play.’ Somos el barco, somos el mar… Photos tacked to the corkboard above the desk. A blue ribbon and a green. Hermione Granger trading card. On the carpet lay a string of painted beads, a plastic ring with a three-carat red gem. She wrapped one around her wrist and slipped the other over the first joint of her pinky. Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi…