Alone in the bathroom, he pulled his wife’s matted auburn hair from the garbage can and flicked it into the shower. Running water caught the strands and dragged them to the tiny circles of the brass drain cover where they clumped like spaghetti in a strainer.

            Thomas looked around the neglected bathroom. He cleared the sink, setting the toothpaste, soap dispenser, and partitioned cup that held three toothbrushes—his, hers, and the one that neither of them claimed—on the window sill. He used a disinfecting wipe to clean the sink, collecting the cut whiskers of his beard even from the underside of the faucet. This reminded him of when they first moved in together, and he cared so much that she would perceive him as clean. When the wipe was full of brown clippings, he folded it, and wiped again, over and over, until the scent of chemical lemons permeated his fingernails, and there was no trace of the parts that he had cut from his body.

            In their bedroom, he put his loose socks and stray shirts in his laundry basket. In their early days, they used to make trips to the laundromat even when they had clean clothes. Bessy’s Suds did not have the newest washing machines in town, but it was cow-themed with a white tile floor and black rugs as spots. Cow décor covered the walls, and floor-to-ceiling shelving units housed cow figurines. A sign above the folding tables said, If you have a cow, leave a cow. If you need a cow, take a cow. And they did. When they were out together, they made a game of finding cows to donate to the collection. When they needed a cow, they took one. Thomas could not imagine how he could live in this wacky place with her and not be happy. But Bessy’s owner retired, and the other laundromat in town was without theme. They agreed that it would be easier to have a washer and dryer in the house. For a while, they still folded warm clothes together. Once, he hid a buck-toothed stuffed cow in their laundry basket, and when she found it, she named him Little Bucky and laughed herself to tears. Now, Little Bucky was abandoned in the back of a closet and his wife’s dirty clothes heaped on her wooden chair. She washed hers, and he washed his. Her pile verged on toppling. Thomas ran his fingers across the beige bra resting over the chair’s back and considered washing her clothes so that she might return to find them neatly folded on the bed, but then he reminded himself that she should be the one making grand gestures.

            Soon, she would be back from her Saturday grocery run, her arms collapsing from the weight of the dozen plastic bags that she would insist she did not need help carrying.

            He returned to the bathroom sink and found a hair. He licked the pad of his finger and dabbed the troublemaker. It clung to the sink even as he scratched his nail against it. He lowered his face into the basin, breathed, and felt his heated exhale rebound against his skin. His breath smelled foul, and he let it. It was a hairline scratch on the porcelain.

His wife pulled up to the house, and he met her outside. She walked past him with the heavy load, and when he closed the car door, she did not thank him. There had been no thanks for some time. Not since the third toothbrush appeared in their home while he was on a work trip. Not since they decided that it was easier to live ugly than to split everything in half and start again.

            In the kitchen, he watched her unpack the groceries. “Can you help?” she asked.

            He sighed.

            The light from the window caught her, and he could see that she was beautiful, but it had nearly lost its effect. “You didn’t do anything all day,” she said. She pulled a box of spaghetti and pack of hamburger meat from a bag.

            “I cleaned the bathroom.”

            “Here, open this.” She slid a sealed jar of tomato sauce down the countertop.

            He popped the seal with a flick of his wrist and slid it back. “Once again, you have a wad of hair in the shower drain.” He wanted this fight.

            She tested the lid, twisting it under her palm. “I clean it every day.”

            He gripped the countertop’s edge. “Look in the shower, and tell me that’s not your hair just like that’s not your extra toothbrush.”

            Her face stiffened. “You promised to stop.” He had promised, but his anger kept winning.

            She disappeared down the hallway and into the bathroom. Her voice echoed out. “It’s barely any hair! You want to fight over this?”

             “You’re careless!” He felt it all going in the wrong direction but yelled, “Are you going to snake the drain next time?” They kept yelling themselves away from everything he wanted.

            Once she slammed the door and silence returned, he was alone in the kitchen. He put groceries away, refilled the napkin holder, and wiped the mess around the salt and pepper shakers. His empty hands trembled. He opened the refrigerator and twisted the tomato jar’s lid until his knuckles were white. At least she would need him again.

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Kelsey Englert’s writing has appeared in Passages North, Into the Void, The Citron Review, and The Broken Plate, among other literary magazines. She is a Pennsylvania native and earned her M.A. in English from Ball State University and M.F.A. in creative writing from West Virginia University. She currently teaches at the University of Arkansas at Monticello. For more information, visit www.kelseyenglert.com.

Art by Erin Tucker
collagraph print, 2013