It’s starting to get dark when I get home. Kurt and Chloe are crammed in the little hallway between Kurt’s bedroom and the bathroom, lit on their sides by the orange glow of the bathroom light spilling out from inside. I kick off my boots and lurch through the living room toward them, hoping at least one of them will move so I can get into the kitchen. “What’s up, guys?” I ask, stopping just before the bathroom door.
“Kurt won’t let me take a shower,” Chloe snips.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t let you take a shower. I said I needed to take one first.”
Chloe looks at me, irritated that I haven’t already sided with her. “The diet I have is very specific. I have to shower in 100 degree water for fifteen minutes to have it be the most effective.”
“Can you guys move?” I grumble. “I’d really like to get a beer and go to bed.”
“Kurt, just let me into the shower so we can leave, all right? The last three times you took a shower before me, there wasn’t enough hot water left for me to get the whole 15-minutes. What, are you afraid that if you don’t go first, you’ll get so dirty you’ll die? I think you’re being ridiculous, Kurt.” She glances at me again and inhales sharply. “Isn’t he being ridiculous, Rubin?”
“Not moving to let me get a beer is ridiculous,” I say.
“Besides,” Chloe interjects, “it’s very important that I get all of my diet shower tonight because I’m meeting that cute boy from the Spot.”
“The drummer?” I ask.
“No, his friend, the guitarist.”
“You’re going to sleep with two guys from the same band?” Kurt asks, eyes narrowing as he shakes his head.
“No!” Chloe cries. “Of course not! What do you think I am, some kind of groupie whore? They aren’t in the same band. This one plays acoustic guitar downstairs at the coffee shop on weekends.”
“Is he playing tonight?” I ask, wondering if I can get one more night out before my body rebels and disassembles itself.
“No, this is his weekend off. I think he plays... hmm,” she stares up at the ceiling a moment to find the answers there. “I think it’s in another two weeks he has a gig.”
“You probably won’t be interested in him by then,” I say, nodding, making a little hand gesture that will perhaps convince one of them to get out of my way.
“Probably not,” she says, shaking her head and belching forth a wicked cackle, demonic eyes burning through me. “So you see,” she says, face melting back into her human disguise, “I really need to take a shower first, so I can get the whole recommended shower time.”
“Chloe,” Kurt spits, neck muscles bulging from the strain of holding back everything he wanted to scream. “Our hot water heater only runs for twelve minutes. If you take a shower first, I don’t get any hot water and your don’t get your whole shower either.”
Chloe purses her lips.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t care who takes a shower first, I just want to drink a beer and go to bed. Would you please let me pass?”
They look at me tensely for a moment before settling their steely eyes on each other. Without a word, they move together down the hall and continue their face-to-face stare-down in the bathroom.
As soon as I walk past the door, Chloe says, “Couldn’t you just not take a shower for one night? I mean, what do you do that gets you so dirty. You sat on your ass at work all day.”
“Chloe, I will be in and out in five minutes!” Kurt whispers harshly. “Let me in there and I will be out before you know it."
“Oh yeah, and leave me with only six or seven minutes of shower time, like that’s going to be enough!”
I pull an Ice Beast from the fridge and go back to my room, losing track of the argument as I get closer. I pop the beer and get into bed, staring off into space, sipping the noxious brew.
After a few minutes, I hear Kurt sink into the couch and grumble, “Who ever heard of needing to take a shower for a diet anyway?”
I fall asleep shortly after. At this point, even guilt can’t prevent that from happening. I end up staying in bed most of Sunday, even though it makes me sick. That kind of unproductivity actually makes me physically ill, but some times it’s unavoidable. It is that kind of rock-bottom depression that has to be reached before one can climb back into the ring and start swinging. I’ve certainly reached that ultimate low, that undefinable, absolute end, the place where even the muck becomes too hard to sink any further. None of it seems to matter anymore. I waste away the day, lost in the depths of thought and melancholy, skip out on the bar, and when I awake again, I’m ready for whatever Monday has to throw at me.
Go to Chapter 71
Go to Chapter 71
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