GH O TI

f i sh

<< Home

Master Bath By Donna Weaver Bath instead of a shower and we could hear him in the living room, skin squealing the tub, the crackle of the AM talk radio hanging from the shower head. That whale bastard’ll leave a ring, my mother said. She spit popcorn seeds in a greasy bowl. I rubbed her feet pulling sock fuzz from her hairy toes. On Saturday afternoons they closed their bedroom door. I pressed my hands on the carpet and kneeled in front of their door trying to listen.

Next >>