Thursday, December 27, 2012

Insomniac, Part 13

There was no soap.  He yelled for Victoria to get him a bar and he thought she should be able to hear him.  When the volume of her music went up, he was sure. No luck. There were three ambulatory people living in this house and he was the only one who ever replaced anything.  Toilet paper, paper towels, soap, antibacterial soap, sponges, or tissues.  It was always him.  He was the only one who ever wrote the grocery items on the white board.  He was the only one who returned library books, the only one to bring dirty dishes from the coffee table in the living room, and the only one, it seemed, who ever flushed toilets.  You'd think that Victoria would be too prissy to leave her poop lying around for everyone to see, but no.

Harold turned off the shower and stepped out without bothering with a towel.  The bath rug was a sodden mess pushed up against the toilet, so water pooled at his feet.  He leaned over to find a bar of soap in the bottom drawer.  Nothing.  He dug through the other drawers, finally coming up with a tiny, furry bar of hotel soap in the back of the top drawer.  How the heck did the dog hair get into drawers in the bathroom? He never came in here unless he was dragged in by the collar to get a bath.  Yet the back of the drawer had dust bunnies filled with fur. 

Hotel soap. 

His skin would be dry tomorrow.  He'd have to go out to the store this afternoon.  He'd hoped for a day, just a single day, when he didn't have to go to the grocery store.  As it was, Hilly and Hork drank about a gallon of milk every day. 

He stepped back into the shower and turned on the water.  He'd been out for less than a minute.  How could it need to warm up again.  Somebody flushed the downstairs toilet.  He danced out of the water just in time to avoid being scalded.  He was awake now.

Thank you for listening, jules

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