Yesterday's writing

Her soap smells like jasmine and cloves, one part made of air, the rest of fire. I meet my eyes in the mirror and for once I can look at my entire self. There I am, reflected. I am a person. I am fatally flawed, just like everyone else who walks this earth.

Then my hands move of their own volition.

They shake themselves dry

They pat themselves briefly against my slacks.

Then they move to the medicine cabinet.

It opens with the slightest creak, a brief and high noise designed only to be heard by the guilty. I look around. What do I expect to see? There’s no accusing finger wagging in my direction, just lots of Body Shop potions and gilded mirrors. A small window overlooks a weeping willow. It’s actually relaxing, this bathroom. I feel good in here. It’s like a little den of grooming, a place where your body is a temple, not shameful terrain.

I shouldn’t tread on this territory. I shouldn’t abuse the trust that’s given to anyone who walks into this golden bath-house, this apartment’s sacred space.

I peer inside.

Initially I’m disappointed: a stack of Crabtree & Evelyn Botanical Beauty bars (mint, fennel, and ivy), Body Time face cream (otuke shea butter) and antioxident cream (something called hydrating serum), Aromatic Essence Foaming Bath Scrub (buttercream). Mouth-watering finds to be certain, but hardly surprising.

Then I push aside the Honey Dream Hand Cream, and what do you know? The real shit hits.

Here’s Celexa.

Here’s Lexapro.

And here’s Valium.

Damn. Here’s Johnny.

Other people need things. Beautiful, lithe people who dress up their cookie-cutter apartments like Egyptian sex dens: They too have holes to be plugged by pharmacology. Yeah, I already knew this. But I’m not against being reminded from time to time.

All these anti-depressants, these purveyors of serotonin, the mediator of the brain. Serotonin lays a cool hand on the hot head of anger, aggression, sleep, sexuality, and appetite. It sometimes causes you to vomit, but it’s so nice about it.

Why does she pop all these pills? Does she curl up into a sad little comma at night? Does she crave that time-lapse injection of happy transmitters? Are you even supposed to mix all this shit?

Nestled next to the pills are yet more pills: Immodium, Pepcid, stool softener. Stool softener? Couldn’t you just push some body butter up your ass and be done with it?