You turn the water on. Let it heat up. You let it get warm so you won't be too cold from taking care of yourself. But not too hot. Or else you'll get hurt.
A shower is a lot like life.
And he walks in. You hear him whisper, I'm sorry. You can hear him whisper from across a crowded, noisy room. He's that important to you.
But you pretend not to hear.
He doesn't leave.
You're glad.
He's that important to you.
So, you continue with your shower. You wash your face. Your body. Your hair. You stand under the water, afraid to turn it off. You want to see him. But you don't think you could take it.
He hurt you like that.
After the water starts getting colder, you finally decide you have to. You turn the water off. Turn your courage on.
You pull back the curtain.
The sight of him makes your breath a thing of the past. he does this to you often. He tells you, I'm sorry...
There's more than one dot ending his sentence. You hang on to them as long as you can. You love his voice.
You say, I'm sorry too...
He asks, Why? You have nothing to be sorry for.
For not being better to him. For not always being there for him.
He tells you it's his fault.
You disagree.
He asks you if you want to take some time apart. He'd understand. But he'd prefer staying together.
You say, On one condition. You can't be with anyone for the time being.
You remember catching him.
You wrap your towel around your waist.
He asks, are you crying?
No.
You lick your lips. Some water has rolled down to them. You taste salt.