Home Making by Lee Matalone

Author:Lee Matalone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

Guest Bathroom

“Is it a window or an interpretable transparency?” Beau looks at the edges of the window in the shower, a rectangular transom painted shut.

“Why would someone do that?” I say. “There’s nothing better than a window in a shower.”

“An outdoor shower may be better.”

“Well, in this climate, that wouldn’t be practical. Maybe when we move to Key West that will make sense.”

He places the head of the screwdriver at the seam of the window and hits its rubber handle with a wood-armed hammer. He works his way around the perimeter of the window, hammering and hammering. “But when we buy the pink house in Key West the priority is to enclose the existing, interior bathroom in glass, so I can look out over the sea when I shit.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I say. “I can’t understand why you would want someone to see you shitting.”

“If someone makes the effort to sail out there, notice me, drop anchor, and watch me in my business, then kudos to them. They’ve earned the show.”

“Do you think Key West will happen for us?”

“It could.” He pauses to blink. He rubs his eyelids, squishing and stretching them apart. I pray that a splinter from the window hasn’t snuck beneath his fingernail. “But maybe it’s better that we don’t ever move to Key West. That we always have this fantasy ocean house.”

“But what about shitting while the sea blows in over you? Don’t you want that?”

He hammers once more and something pops. The paint seal has cracked. He rotates the window’s plastic handle until the bottom of the window has floated six inches away from the sill. Cold air rushes in immediately.

“This is good, great,” he says, sticking his fingers through the opening and wiggling them.

“Careful,” I say. “A bird may think those are fat worms.”

He pulls his fingers back inside and steps out of the shower. He takes me by the shoulders and I feel his tongue against my molars. This is not the first time he has tried to find love in my mouth.

“It’s a shame,” he says, removing his mouth from mine and folding his arms around my waist. He rests his head on my shoulder. We sway.

In our pink house, I say, people will not know what to make of us.

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” He turns the shower’s handle, initiating a trail of sputtering water down the drain. Shortly, it soothes into a stream.

I make a pot of tea. I sit on the toilet and he showers. We talk about the pink house. This is love, too.

“Do you need me to bring you anything from the house?” my mother asks.

Over the line, I can hear my mother smoking out in the yard. She never smoked until retirement. She doesn’t really smoke now, but she is trying to smoke. She is trying to have a bad habit but it just cannot seem to stick.

“Nothing I can think of.”

“Do you need linens?” She quiets to inhale, exhale. “Should I bring a towel?”

“No.

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