She’s painting white against white. It’s an octopus—I know from illuminated glances, stolen when the desk lamp lights each colorless ridge and layer—but to the passing eye, it’s just an empty frame on the textured wall. She shuts the door against me to add another layer of madness.
Gretchen has an octopus painting on her wall, but she supposes you do, too.
Someone once told me a hot shower is like a mother’s womb.
Perhaps because you feel safe being vulnerable.
I wonder if I ever cried in my mother’s womb.
I like crying in the shower. It’s the solidarity I get knowing that something else can pour as much as me.
Joshua Benitez believes the best time for a shower is at night.
We sat by dad’s deathbed, my sisters and I. He opened his eyes and stared at us with urgency.
“You only ever got to know my shell,” he said. “Quick; I gotta show you!”
Curious, we all leaned forward on our chairs and waited.
But he never said anything more.
David Derey wrote this story.