It’s mine, isn’t it?
All I have to do is go inside.
“I’m home,” I call, stepping in the front door. The warmth and the smell of spicy chili and cornbread hits me.
Jamie steps out of the kitchen, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her eyes crinkle when she sees me. “You’re back.”
Strange thing, she almost looks surprised.
She blushes, and I wonder if we usually kiss when I come home. I stare at her mouth.
“What?” She wipes at her lip and frowns at me.
I clear my throat and realize even over the chili and cornbread I can still smell sewage and yes, chicken poop from this morning. I nod toward the bath. “I’ll go shower off.”
Is it just me, or are her eyes going dark and warm? I can almost touch the awareness between us, expanding like a soap bubble. If I speak, will it pop?
I stay quiet, holding my breath.
But she shakes her head and the bubble pops anyway. “Dinner’s ready in five.”
“Alright. Thank you.”
She gives me a surprised smile, then waves me off and hurries back to the kitchen.
In the bathroom, I strip down, throw my dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and let the hot water run over my tired muscles. I scrub myself with the soap bar, dragging it over every inch, twice, then three times. I keep scrubbing until the water runs clear and all I can smell is fresh, soap-scented water. The shower water drums against me and echoes in the small stall. It feels so good. I lower my eyes and wonder if Jamie and I ever had sex in this shower. Then I shake my head. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.
It has to be that we’ve had sex but I can’t remember having sex. The imagining and the wondering is driving me crazy. We have all this history and I don’t remember any of it. I shake my head, flinging the water away.
I want to know everything. I want to know what I like, what I don’t like. Why we live here. Why I work at the job I do. What my dreams are. What our dreams are.
The only thing I really know about myself is that I hate small, enclosed spaces. I hate feeling trapped. When I went in that first port-a-john today I nearly lost my mind. My heart slammed against my chest, my throat constricted, and I slammed out of it so fast that Big Tom looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I am. I don’t know what happened.
I rinse off the last of the soap and turn off the water. When I do, there’s a quiet knock on the door.
“Yes?”
“I brought you a clean towel.” Jamie holds a towel out to me, keeping behind the closed door so she doesn’t see me naked. I frown. Is that the kind of relationship we have?
I grab the towel and wrap it around my waist. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be in the kitch—”
I swing open the door and her eyes go wide, taking in my bare chest, the water dripping down my abdomen.
“—en.” A bright flush spreads over her cheeks, and it’s like she can’t help herself. Her eyes cling to my chest, follow the line down, down to where the towel’s starting to tent.
When she sees that, her eyes fly up to mine, as shocked as if I’d struck her with a bolt of lightning.
I smile and shrug. “Looks like somebody remembers.”
She coughs, hits her chest, and then backs up. “Uh. Ummm.”
I lift my eyebrows. “I mean, I know I’m covered in bruises and scrapes, but it’s not like you haven’t seen…” I narrow my eyes when she trips over the bed.
She scrambles up. “Sorry. Sorry, the chili’s burning. Gotta go.”
I frown as she dashes from the bedroom.