maerD ddO rehtonA

I woke up in my childhood bed. I didn’t question how or why. I threw off the covers, stood, and staggered to the bathroom. It was exactly where I’d left it, fifteen-odd years later. But then bathrooms don’t tend to move, do they? Particularly when they’re one of seven rooms in a single-story house. The bathroom’s sink and tub were overflowing. On the bright side, they were overflowing with water. So, it could’ve been worse. StepDude didn’t give a damn. He’d left the water to fill and overflow. In fact, all of the sinks in the house were overflowing—with water—which, at least to the eye, seemed clean. Thank God. There’s always a bright side. If your house must flood, better if it’s flooded with clean water—as opposed to rusty colored water, or saltwater, or sewage. But I hadn’t realized something. Since I’d moved out, fifteen-odd years ago, StepDude inexplicably had sinks installed in every room and also in the hallway. That makes nine sinks—nine sinks and faucets*—if you count the one beside the washing machine in the basement. (And why shouldn’t I count it? It, too, was overflowing.) Needless to say, I was pissed. (And not in the “inebriated” sense.) StepDude had wasted all of the hot water on porpoise (and on purpose) and I had to shower. I had somewhere to be. (Not that I could tell you where I had to be—save for elsewhere.) That’s right, it didn’t matter, not a whit, not to me, that all of the sinks and the tub were overflowing and flooding the house. Like hell was I gonna take a cold shower! 

17 February 2000 

*[04/23/23: What do you call a sink without faucet? A urinal.]

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