Part II
He sat. And sat. Read while he sat. He sat and thought and watched the rain accumulate in streams. The vessels swelled as more and more streamed in. So he sat. Internally lost; externally ballooning. The heat emanated into the porcelain. His veneer cracked unusually and protruded a sensitive cherry, the pain truly coming through tension and shifting bowels, but he was never sufficiently observant when his body expressed subtle signs of unhappiness.
He tore a line of white squares and bunched them up as he leaned forward and arched his back. The dimples in the paper smeared feculence over the cherry and forced his pelvis skyward when the rectal burst sparkled inward. His abdomen and hips tensed as his toes curled into the rug separating him from the floor. So little relief in the strained recline that pressed the cold white into the middle of his back. He tore and shaped and dreaded. Tensed and relaxed and inhaled and exhaled. Thought about when other possibilities would not be accessible and what might be done then.
He threw the spotless squares into the bowl and watched the water retreat, then turned on the shower and stepped under the stream. The water circled the smooth, steel funnel, coating and moving like oil, shaping into its surroundings. He turned around and the water reached for his back. It fell along his spinal ridges and disappeared into the cleavage protecting the inflamed bulb.
He squeezed soap into either hand and lathered it until bubbled gloves formed and pressed a hand into the wounded crease, surprised at the lightness of his own touch, trying to sufficiently clean without fireworks. The soapy soils popped along the drain as his curiosity got the best of him. He pressed the swell inward and felt the surrounding topography to compose an idea of appearances, thinking about how ridiculous it would look to try and see such things in the mirror, then sizing up the angles and deciding whether looking through his legs would bring him close enough to actually see everything.
He turned the water off and watched the fluid wrists go limp and disappear. The towel hung outside the shower and was gently pressed into the injured area, the cotton impression being a bit less gentle than his foamy phalanges, but the process being nothing near as bad as what he had imagined. He folded the towel in half and held it over the rack so that either side would fall past the bar and allow the center to meet the faded plastic. He let go. The towel balanced unevenly so he pulled one side downward, lifting the other.
Each step was small, close, tight, so that no stretch surprised him and no slip could topple him, and each time his heel pressed into the tile there was a rumbled rush that climbed his stilts and advised caution. He reached for the mirror above the sink and divorced the magnets as he watched himself moving into the wall. He shuffled through the opened and unopened collection of leaving labels and stale salves.
Don’t have what’s needed. Unfortunate.
He pushed everything on the shelf back and closed the mirror, letting the magnet rip the handle from his hand and hearing the bambs and balms lean into each other. He saw without smile, never certain of looking back.
Part III
She asked the driver to drop her off at the market nearest her home. She tipped him generously, wished him something good, and ran from one door to the other, covering her hair with the back of her jacket and not noticing any other being on the sidewalk. Couldn’t they tell it was urgent by the frequency of the clicks? Someone held the door for her.
She walked to where the baskets were, took one, and placed her wallet and list into it, crossing items off one at a time until finally reaching the concluding scribble: hemorrhoid cream.
It wasn’t that the medicine was needed, it was more a prophylactic or consideration for the future. A just-in-case, since the previous tube expired four days ago. She would never admit to its usefulness against the dermal sag surrounding her white and green and black orbits.
She turned down the aisle and started walking towards a thoughtfully-stepping, attractive man. His minimal, intent stride was half her own and his posture pushed his shoulders back to tighten the fabric around his chest, exposing two dark circles through the wet, translucent shirt.
Her steps began to slow as she approached what appeared to be an empty box with recognizable shapes and colors. His steps slowed as well, but never to a complete stop, and she felt his eyes gazing through her dress and jacket. She could not contain her embarrassment. Hoped he didn’t see where her hand reached. Didn’t see which box it was molesting in order to complete the list, the sound of her nails scratching the bottom before pulling back from a surprised contact: last one.
She checked the expiration date. This would last long enough. He was still close, close enough to see what she was buying, enough to smell her, but never reached for anything on the shelf. Placing the tube into her basket, she turned away and let her sound recede, adding a rhythm to her hips and tightening her back and neck. She couldn’t imagine talking to him now, turning around and forcing their eyes to meet, making sure that she cleared her throat so that the awkward mucus couldn’t catch her words. It was too much to think about so she kept leaning and moving forward. He, too, set into motion.
Excuse me.