Foreclosure
The woman was a sucker for a tricked out bathroom, and this one came fully loaded: russet Italian marble, bronze fixtures, a Japanese commode that washed and air dried after each use, plus a Jacuzzi with nozzles calibrated to hit all the right places. One night as she soaked in lavender-scented water she felt the bathroom’s fingers begin to press into her scalp, rubbing circles over the skin until she said, “yes, yes, of course, I’ll sign anything.”
Kneeling next to her, he whispered, “I promise never to let us go underwater. The value of our love will always be greater than the payments we make to keep it alive.”
But the installments he required rose day by day, and his long arm began to drag the woman under the surface. He liked to sneak up on her whenever she was relaxing, after the candles had been lit. Just as she settled in with a novel, the slick water gliding over her stomach, he’d slip into the tub, splash the pages of her book, and turn the faucets on full blast until they were flooded up to their necks. He’d balloon with laughter, dunk her head under for good measure, and then hop out of the tub, saying, “what’s wrong, am I crowding you out? Lighten up.”
His interest in her toilette accelerated. He fixated on bathing with her morning and night, and she couldn’t keep up the pace – the shenanigans wore her down.
“It’s a matter of bad faith,” she told him, “of not living up to promises. This relationship is overrated. I can pay an hourly rate with a masseur on an as-needed basis, there’s a gym with a sauna right down the street, no need to saddle myself for life with a knave.”
He floated with glee. “Don’t bank on it, baby, you’ll be at my door, begging me to let you back.”
The next time she tried to enter the bathroom, it was padlocked, her entrance barred. She banged the heel of her palm against the paneled door. “I know you’re there, mister. You had better let me in. Do you hear me? At least let me get my things. You in there? Let me in.”
The only reply was the silence of water hissing through pipes.
Bio: Christine Swint is a former high school Spanish teacher who now devotes herself to creative writing and the practice of yoga. She also co-edits ouroboros review, a poetry and art journal. Her work has recently appeared in Mannequin Envy and qarrtsiluni, and is forthcoming in the Tipton Poetry Journal.