Pink and black dots constellate the toilet bowl. I shut the lid to keep the musk out, ignoring grime with every flush. At least I don’t have to stand there staring at the galaxy of filth while pissing like he does. The mirrors dribble with dried toothpaste and the tub is furred with soap scum. Each passing day, I anticipate a comment so that I can justifiably snap, the supplies are in the basement; have at it. I can’t tell what’s more infuriating: that he doesn’t notice the muck of our lives, or that he’s waiting for me to cave.
Cassandra Caverhill is a writer hailing from Windsor, Ontario. Her prose and poetry have been published internationally. Learn more at cassandracaverhill.com.