When I’m drugged home you order me upstairs to the shower. I scrub, vigorously scrub. Vicariously, you inspect it separate from me, observe it circle the drain through the hair and slide between the holes. I wrench the washcloth, squeeze the grease, the scent persists. It transports me back beyond me to the primal, mystic us. Washed, I hush into bed avoiding repercussion. You’ll submit consequence later. I’ll pay. For you pulled your object out of the chaos and I constructed meaning subordinate to it. Then you slip under and love me and tangled we become one
Dave Nash enjoys the city on rainy Mondays and waking up to instant coffee everyday. He reads fiction submissions at Five South Magazine and writes stories found in places like Bivouac Magazine.