I know it before I even look. The window is shut, the curtain is still, and the kitchen is gray with early morning light. Wincing, I peel myself off the floor with the help of the refrigerator as a crutch. I wobble to the bathroom on legs that don’t feel entirely connected to my brain. I don’t look at the shower wall. I already know what’s there. I turn the water as hot as it goes and step in.
I scrub myself with the Byredo body wash and a washcloth until my skin is pink and raw everywhere I can reach. My neck, where his hand was. My thighs. My stomach. The small of my back. I scrub methodically, section by section.
Because I’ve done this before.
Five years ago, in a communal dorm bathroom at three in the morning, I stood under water this hot and did this same thing. Same scrubbing. Sam
