We were so behind on
our evaporation payments they'd cut us off. We were festering. There was
no point in towels. The oatmeal lay soaked in its jar. I tried cooking
noodles but they were already soft, and anyway the water would get hot but
never boil. The air chafed with cat piss. Mildew webbed across my clothes.
My roommate started going to her boyfriend's to dry off. I told her I'd
take care of it. Take out a loan, put it on credit. I called and called
the company but no one picked up. The sound of bubbling floated through
I sat in the swamp of my desk chair panning through Twitter. The iPad
still worked though the desktop computer had fallen to mold. My fingers
cut through slime with every swipe. I caught up on the news. I streamed
pop songs. My shoulders stuck to the chair while I watched Sharknado
I could feel algae in my hair, slick and green. The smell of healthy
bacteria ringed my face. Something brown grew under my fingernails. I
wasn't brave enough to look at my feet. In the floor, soft welts formed,
and the hardwood flaked away with each step.
The windows, pooled with water and grit, rusted shut. Brown holes wore
through the blinds. I pressed my wrinkled hands to the glass and watched
as the dry world passed. Women in gossamer dresses, men in pleated suits.
Their hair looked damp because they wanted it to. Their lips flickered
with glycerin. Their bright leather shoes kept time against the sidewalk:
clip, clip, clip.
Sasha Geffen is a writer, critic, and journalist whose work focuses on music
and pop culture.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
W i g l e a f