He putters into the bedroom and a minute later I hear the water running. Ross takes long-ass showers. I don’t know what for. He’s got like an inch of hair, an on-the-smaller-side body. How long does it take to wash it all? Then again, maybe that’s his way of doing what I’m about to do: relax. Maybe it’s less about need and more about desire, about wanting to remain under that steaming water, needing to tip his face up to the spray. The politics of forgetting, the persistence of memory. Let him have his space.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment