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?"

Him: Safe.

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.