Little Bit of Fiction

Liz and Cindy and I started a writing group, the first meeting was last night. Here's one of the pieces I wrote last night.

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Bathrooms are wet, unclean places with a huge pile of dank paper towels limp and brown sticking to the square squares of the mosaic floor, sticking to one another. The eldest of these paper towels are loose and curled - to the left and right of the main pile. There since 8:07am when A.H. verified the room as minty fresh and meeting corporate standards. The edges of the elderly wet paper towels are beginning to dry, ever so slightly, turning a lighter shade of brown, like frosted tips of hair.

The sink is a polished dark aggregate, so blotchy and freckled that the dirt is impossible to see. You can't even tell if it's wet. Puddles lie in ambush waiting snickering for the unsuspecting patron to lean against the counter and soak the front of their shirt. 'Ha Ha! Now it looks like you pee'd!' Thinks the sink – this is the only fun it has, no one loves it, cleans it, polishes it, no 409 and Comet – and they'd promised! No. The sink waits and broods and grows bitter. Inside, a tiny crack forms and begins to split, year after year, small increments of cracking until March 25, 2009 when it will split wide like a hungry, abused hippopotamus and kill Harry Sears, a cashier from Office Depot who came over during his lunch hour to buy a gift for his wife.

Bathrooms are forgotten, utilitarian closets of distaste and rough unprotected sex, quick dirty necessity performed in haste. Committed like a crime. Then hidden, pushed away under water - - washed away but not quite gone.