Broke in the new shower finally. Sat right on the floor. Water mixed in nicely with the tears. That honed river rock felt about like I thought it would when I picked it out.
We were nineteen, maybe twenty, when some smartass asked that stupid question, "So picture yourself being put into a jar. Now the lid gets screwed on. How do you feel?"
Me: Suffocated. Trapped. And what the fuck is wrong with you? Safe?
Person: That's how you feel about death.
Twenty years later.
Him: I still feel safe.
Twenty-six years later.
Me on the shower floor knowing you can't answer that question twice.