The Shower

When I think back, I struggle to understand where I went wrong – she never showed any need for change. We already had ample variation in our relationship: I was happy to give it to her both hot and cold, as and when she demanded. Perhaps our day to day routine became too mundane, but it was she who always initiated the morning quickie – turning me on and leaning sleepily into me, confident that I’d bring her back to life. While when it came to her hangovers, I gave her all the attention she desired – and that was a lot. Deviating from our norm – which was standing FYI – she’d sit, rolling her head back and forth in pleasure as I eased the pain. Occasionally she’d steady herself, by grasping at the walls. It was the same when she was sad (the sitting thing, that is). Except for then she would cry. Those days were hard and, despite my tender touch, nothing I could do would mend her.

I don’t know which season I loved her most. In the winter, she’d like to take it nice and slow, letting the whole experience wash over her as I comforted her weary body on those long, cold nights. But come the summer, she’d be frisky as hell. Her appetite for me would become insatiable, and she’d search me out multiple times a day on the weekend, and immediately after work during the week. She’d be hot and bothered from the city air, and I often felt I was the only one that could soothe her, helping her to cool down and collect her thoughts as I caressed her skin.

But then, the other week, she packed her stuff into boxes and left. That really hurt, and I miss her. Late at night it sometimes gets to me, and I’ll cry – my tears dripping on the floor. Drip. drip. drip.

HER: I’m really looking forward to having a bath in the next place