CLEANING THE BATHROOM AND OTHER CHORES YOU WON’T DO
The bathroom is a trap of long black hairs and spiderwebs that I can’t tell apart. The water coughs before it drains in a powerless whirlpool. It has been a mess for four weeks now. I waited for you who waited for me to clean it. I used to wear long rubber gloves because you told me these were powerful chemicals that could harm me, could leave scars. You don’t like scars; you have been clear about that, especially each time I revealed my breasts to you and explained how much it hurt to carry an extra four pounds on my chest. You cannot understand why a woman would not want boobs because boobs are power, or so you think. Natural beauty is an asset, you say, more to the owner than to the person possessing it, and most of the time, they are not the same person. Now I’m no longer afraid of pain. I step in with brushes and wipes and bleach and detergent, not expecting dirt and grime to defy gravity and cling to the underside of the soap-holder where I cannot see them. I do not expect gashes of mold behind the bottles of shampoo—nothing flower-scented for you, and you absolutely would not use conditioner—and body scrub—mine, but you share, because we all have dead cells that cling to us that we cannot see. My arms ache like I have dragged four corpses, reaching spots behind the toilet and in the corners where the walls and floor shielded spiders and the homes they’ve spun. I know you would like me to do the laundry as well because you work all day and I’m home all day, having nothing to do. You don’t know this, but I still have some clean underwear, the ones I never take out anymore. They are the red lacy ones from our wedding night. So I will wait some more. One day you’ll yell at me just as I’m closing the oven door, demand to know why I’ve left you with no sun-fragrant clothes, and startled, I’ll burn myself, a long fire-red gash on my arm. And maybe that scar will be the portal I could enter to finally vanish, marks and all.
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Neeru Nagarajan is an Indian Tamil writer. Her flash fiction appears in SoFloPoJo, The Maine Review, GASHER, Stonecoast Review, and elsewhere. She’s @poonaikaari on Twitter.
