He had six minutes to bathe. To shave the patches of weekend stubble from his chin, and to find a suitable, pressed outfit that was casual enough for him to maintain comfort, while still withholding the lofty expectations of the La’ Madeleine dress code. Amy had called earlier to ask him for a coffee at their French bistro nestled in the downtown alcove.
"Twenty minutes, max. That's all I need," she said.
His closet was arranged front left to right by color, brand, and style. It resembled a work of art, something you'd find in a metropolitan museum, framed by two French doors that slid open with a creak on the uneven floors. While he gathered handfuls of brown tweed and examined the creases in his tan slacks (the same slacks that wouldn't loosen up no matter how many times he ironed them), he looked through the foyer into his hallway bathroom: it looked the same as it did two weeks ago when Amy left him.
The orange toothbrush holder's rim was outlined and caked with toothpaste residue and a thing ring or green shaving scum. She could never spit into the sink without making a mess. They would brush their teeth together on Sunday mornings, smiling at each other. Amy's mouth was small, so the foam would tumble out of her mouth and run down her chin. Sometimes she made childish growls, as if she was trying to emulate a furry electric green closet monster. He always laughed, and wiped away the foam, so he could see the small mole resting beneath her lips.
"Your lips aren't real," he would say, "they're small, like a porcelain doll's lips." Then he'd call her a pet name, probably something a young girl would call her doll.
On the toilet tank rested a stack of ancient car performance and home improvement magazines, all their favorite articles creased. The tile right in front of the sink was still unattached from the ground. Several months ago, they came home after a night of drinking, and stumbled into the bathroom, furiously ripping their clothes off. They made love twice. He was too concerned with fixing the tile, so she ripped the floral print shower curtain from the brass rod and wrapped it around their bodies.
---
He returned to the bathroom and hung his clothes neatly behind the door. The water ran for twenty seconds. His fingers maneuvered under the tepid current, creating the scalating sound of sheets of water crashing against huge slabs of Gibraltar. It reminded him of the fountains in the park that he would go penny diving as a kid with Amy's brother. Her brother convinced him it would be a fun idea to steal the dirty old pennies and nickels that people had tossed into the water.
"People make wishes on those pennies and nickels," he explained, "My dad said they never come true, like they’re throwing money away. So we should just take them and spend all the money on a new bike!”
They traveled to the mall each weekend, rainbow colored snorkels and small glass jars in hand. After a few years, they each bought new bikes, with shiny metal everywhere, and a free football card for the spokes. He kept most of the pennies, and eventually gave it to Amy as a prom gift. "Cute," she said, and kept it in the trunk of her car. The car still ran, even well after they graduated.
---
"I want to take a bath."
He made sure the plug was secured tightly and stepped into the water. It was unbearably hot. Every few seconds, he attempted to lower himself into the water, but was drawn back from a burning sensation that traveled through his buttocks. Eyes closed, he slid down the tub bump into the water. A washcloth raced across his body, planting beads of water that glistened like stars in his stubble beneath the single forty watt light bulb flickering overhead.
The bath made him feel dirtier. “Why would anyone take a bath? You’re just reattaching the filth to your body since you’re sitting in it.” Next, he lathered his hands and applied a generous coat to his chin and cheeks. The razor glided effortlessly on his cheeks, only catching itself on the crook of his chin. It stung, but didn’t bleed.
While tying his shoes, the cell phone on the nightstand began shaking and illuminating.
From: Amy
Hurry up. You’re always late. I’m going to order in 10 minutes.
Amy~
He raced into the living room and watered the plants. The two ferns with wilting brown stems. The pink orchid with buds that looked like tiny rock candies. And the small lemon tree. Only Amy could get a tropical plant to grow in an eight-story window in downtown Boston. He slid the shades down and twisted them open.
The door closed behind him.
He arrived at the restaurant and was greeted via the nostrils with the pungent aroma of garlic, red cooking cherry, and triple digit perfume. Amy got their usual spot at the northern corner of the restaurant. A small bistro-style cherry wood table with two stools, two daisies in a lavender vase. There was still a spot of red wine on the wall from when Amy spit up everywhere last Valentine’s Day. He surprised her with
The host seated him near the window, with a plate of steam slowly rising from the edges. It was a poorly constructed pile of elbow macaroni smothered in a garlic butter sauce. Chunks of broccoli floated through the sauce like uprooted tree stumps or something like the scene of a graveyard after teenagers went through it with a half dozen ball-pined hammers.
“I like your hair, Amy. Who dyed it?” He said in between chews, bunching his lips together so the sauce wouldn’t run down his face.
“I can’t keep doing this. This break might need to be permanent. I don’t know what to think about you anymore.”
He raised his glass at the waiter, and he returned with a pitcher of water.
“I don’t even know what I did.”
“What haven’t you done?” She grabbed a hunk of bread and pushed it through the remaining sauce like a sleek jet boat with green speckles in the paint. “I just need a change. And I hate your bed. It’s too small.”
They said nothing for a few minutes. Amy took several more scraps of bread and raced them through the sauce, leaving the face of her plate clean.
“I’m coming over tomorrow to grab some of my things,” she reached into her purse, tossing tubes of make-up and gum wrappers to the ground.
“Here, take this jar of change that was in my trunk. Some of it is missing. I’ve been using it to get a candy bar on my breaks at work. I think I used all of the quarters and dimes.”
He slid it across the table, and it felt into his lap, jarring the lid.
“I’ll call you later tonight.”
She left, without waving or saying goodbye. He watched the tail of her brown pea coat drag against the ground, the corners tattering on the grout. He watched her maneuver herself next to a mail box outside and makes a phone call. Two semis drove in front of where she was standing, then she disappeared.
He unscrewed the lid and poured the coins on the satin tablecloth. There was only one quarter left. He rolled it off the table in between his thumb and index finger. Worn edges, the face on the front was yellowed with age and appeared to be scratched with a finger nail. His eyes burned, but didn’t cry.
He stood up, leaving the pennies and the jar on the edge of the table. He slipped the quarter in his sweater pocket. The waiter made his way from the kitchen to the adjacent side of the table.
“I assume you need your check, sir?” He placed the receipt face down on the table.
His started chewing on his fingers, as if they were just another meal. A crisp fifty dollar bill was placed on the table.
“Keep the change.”
