Afterwards, she turned her face to the wall and pretended not to hear him leave the bed.  For a moment there was nothing, but when the shower clicked on, she had to swallow hard to keep the drinks he’d paid for down.  She felt trapped by the sheets that had gathered around her feet, struggling wordlessly to free herself until finally, with a grunt, she kicked them to the floor.  Then, she waited. She waited for him to call to her, to pull her to him, to grin and put his hands on her as he had that night, under the lights and in front of her friends who’d watched them leave together knowing that he wanted her; knowing that she was worth wanting. In the dark she waited.  And as she did, she listened to the water as it splashed against his body and across the plastic curtain before falling, at last, to the bottom of the tub, where it seemed to scream just a little before tumbling down the drain. 

When she was young, girls traveled in packs.  The doorbell would ring and soon the house would be filled with giggles that seemed to float above the thick clouds of hairspray and perfume.  They’d try on one another’s clothes and tease each other’s hair, painting cherry toenails and blotting pink kisses onto paper napkins.  Sometimes, they’d play music, while others they’d brag and coo about their own exaggerated worldliness, but always her mother would be sat in the middle of it all, a nicotine stained Buddha, surrounded by eager adolescent followers – each one waiting with cupped hands as pearls of wisdom about make up and men seemed to fall, (in endless supply), from those thin red lips. Finally, primped and polished, they’d set out as one mass.  And as they moved the world seemed to stop breathing. 

She didn’t hear him turn the water off or the way he sighed as he dried his hair with her towel.  Rather she was awakened by the clatter of loose change or keys dropping from his pockets and onto the tiled floor, as he fumbled for his pants. Again, she swallowed, but this time it was something more toxic that she had to fight to keep down. Quickly, she turned herself to face him, pulling her body into the shaft of light from the bathroom that slashed into the darkness and cut across her bed.  She opened her legs slightly and closed her eyes, waiting for him to come to her.  To say her name.  To ask for her number.  To say he wanted to see her again, even if they both knew it was a lie.  But as he left there was nothing save the anxious beating of her own heart and the sound of his quickening footsteps, until finally both faded to nothing. 

“Fuck you,” she whispered to no one in particular, biting her lip around the words.

She wasn’t angry, exactly, or even hurt.  There were no tears.  No longing for something she knew belonged to her.  No aching for some vital bit of herself that she felt had been unfairly peeled away.  Rather, there was just the faint scent of the steam and the soap and the someone who had once been there but was now gone, replaced only by the lingering wish that she hadn’t been quite so easy to wash away. In her emptiness, she pulled herself back into the darkened corner of the bed. And then, shielding her eyes with one hand, she slowly crept down its blackened perimeter, feeling along the wall with the other, until finally her feet touched the floor. 

In school, she’d been given one of those tests that was supposed to predict a young person’s future.  She’d answered honestly, and at the end, it said that what she should do most was become a phlebotomist or a dental hygienist.  She wasn’t exactly sure what either of those people did, but she knew they helped people and that others looked upto them and although she’d laughed with her friends about their collective results, deep down she’d liked the sound of each profession as she whispered it after her name.  She’d carried the paper home to show her mother, who stood in the kitchen staring blankly out the window as she’d shared her news like a good tiding from some lately cracked fortune cookie.  But in response her mother had said nothing and when she was done, she simply flicked her cigarette butt into the sink. 

Gradually, she made her way to the room at the end of the hall where a dim light pushed its way out across the floor. She leaned against the door, letting it take her weight.  And for an instant she thought she might not go in.  Desperately, she tried to will herself back towards her own room and the bed and the sheets where she could quietly drown in the storm that threatened her. But then, she heard a little voice singing on the other side. Gently, she pressed open the door and found her daughter sitting cross-legged on the small bed, making wispy shadow puppets on the wall.  She didn’t comment on how late it was or how many hours passed “bedtime” they’d both stayed up.  Instead, she marveled at how much like her father the little girl looked, and silently wondered if such attributes were a blessing or a curse, before slowly climbing into the bed next to her.  The goodnights were quick and quiet and after a moment, darkness began to blur the corners of the room, but both were wide awake:

"Is the man still here?” The inevitable question came. 

She paused.

"No” she said finally, hearing the word as it left her, filled with breath and apology.

"Was he nice?” the little voice asked.

"Yes” she responded slowly.  But somehow, it wasn’t enough.  “He liked mommy a lot” she offered.  And then… in the silence… this time very softly, “He liked mommy a lot.”

There was no reply.