#346 - Showerhead 2:34AM

The showerhead in my upstairs bathroom is polished chrome. A cord extends from its base, curving gently down, undulating around the faucet. I breath in and turn it on. Dimples cover the showerhead face, each pierced with a hole where moisture passes through before spilling down my skin. Steam fills the shower.

I think of the YMCA steam room after swim practice. The odor of chlorine fills the air, powerful and antiseptic. Hairy legs extend out below wrapped towels, leading down to feet, some bare and some clad in sandals. Dense steam conceal everything above until you are too close to another body. Once there though, a flash of intimacy in the crowd. All eyes closed, no words spoken, as if we exist separately, unknowing and uncaring what lies through the fog. We all know each other, of course, but for a sweet moment we don't anymore. For a time, we only know comfort and warmth. Gently shifting bodies the only sound.

I look up at the showerhead. Between the dimples, some dirt or deposits of some kind have built up. It's not pretty, but glimpses of shiny chrome tells me it was, once. I see my face reflected, hair plastered to my head. My nose looks large in the reflection, distorted by the round head, like a convex mirror. Below, my chest glistens, patches of hair giving way to smooth raceways. I open my mouth to take in water. I feel it fill my mouth, and I see it gurgle out, down my chin. Beads of moisture grow in my beard, too stubborn to fall away. Some drops connect, briefly forming a web.

I grab the head and twist the output selector around from left to right. The water quickens pace. What started as a dribble becomes a stream, steady and warm. Another twist brings more intensity. I turn my head down, and feel pricks on my back. It hurts, but I lean into it anyway. The last output setting, meant to massage, gushes water across me and all over the shower stall.