You’ve spent all week in bed together and you’re covered head to toe in a grayish grime, a fragrant mixture of the sweat and other things bodily the two of you have excreted while throwing yourselves inside each other’s bodies. It’s your last week unemployed together so you had no choice.
“How could you get a job?” ask her.
“I was hungry,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again, her on top this time. When you’re finished, show her the sleeve of saltines.
“We’ve still got twelve left,” tell her.
“Not enough,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again. And again. You on top. Then the two of you on your sides because you’re both too tired. It’s getting dark.
“Maybe I’ll get a job then,” threaten.
“Go ahead.”
“I won’t be here waiting for you. I’ll meet girls who work in offices.”
She’ll ignore you, smelling the grime on her fingers.
“We should get started,” she’ll say.
“Once more,” insist.
Once more, then at her insistence, start washing the grime. It will be at least two showers tonight and once more in the morning before she can scrape you off enough to present herself dressed up in Corporate Tolerable.
“Once more,” say, in between the first and second shower.
“Once more,” she’ll agree.
Tomorrow while she’s at work take your sheets outside and throw them into the trashcan on the street corner before the deli fills it up with cardboard. Then, day-drink.
Happy Wash The Grime Day!
