Friend of mine said “If I write a sentence, will you write a story that starts with it? And send me a sentence so I can write one?” So I did. Behold!
fiction by Jason Edwards
She hated the sound it made when it clicked. The shower door. He was supposed to fix it. He said he would. He said he would fix it, it would be easy, just a little adjustment to one of the hinge rails where it was rubbing and popping against the jamb. Bullshit. If it was so easy, why hadn’t he done? If it was so simple, why did he need to sleep with that fat tramp? It had gotten to the point where she dreaded going to the gym. Dreaded yoga. Who dreads yoga. In yoga, Uttana Shishosana, Adho Mukha Svanasana, Parsvottanasana, dripping with sweat, the opposite of relaxed, the opposite of at peace, each drip a reminder that when she got home she would have to take a shower and the click when the shower door opened and the click when it closed and that asshole who made her think she was okay but it turned out she was seriously not okay.
It had gotten to the point where she dreaded going to sleep, because then she’d have to wake up and take a shower and go to work. Where she is now, in her cubicle, writing him an email and deleting it and writing him another and deleting it too. Next to her, on the other side of the cubicle wall, some asshole who speaks too loudly on the phone, a welcome distraction, good to be mad at someone who she can look in the eye when they pass each other in the break room and she doesn’t have to say a single fucking word and he’ll just know. Shut the fuck up.
She’d tried never closing the shower door at all, and that had worked, and she let herself get lost in the suds and loofahs and thinking about sushi because he hated sushi and she used to eat it and then didn’t and now she could again be she hadn’t yet. Lathered herself up good and washed her hair and rinsed and even repeated. Then the hot water turned warm and then tepid and she turned it off and stepped into a huge puddle. It took every towel she owned. Damn it. Damn him.
They had showers at work, she could start using those, and why not? They were perfectly clean, cleaner, even. No shower doors, just curtains that rattled loudly, a reassuring loud rattle that hollered a straight-forward self-assuredness when it came to getting oneself clean. Instead of stupid yoga, she could ride her bike to work, or run, at least part way. But what if it rained one day? What if it snowed? What if she was running late? What’s worse than the shower door clicking every day and being used it? It only clicking once in a while and catching her by surprise?
Her boss pops her head into her cube. See the game last night? Her boss is the only female boss in the place, and she’s the only female engineer. That makes them a team, according to some secret sexist rule. She has no interests in sports. She doesn’t think her boss does either. But she’s an engineer, for Christ’s sake, what else is she going to talk about, Star Trek? No, I didn’t see it, who won? Beavers by three, her boss says, leaving, and in the cube next to her, a stifled chortle. Probably unrelated.
The click. Four times a day. Open it, click, that patronizing look on his face when she’d asked him if he was going to fix it like he said he would. Step in, close it, click, the first time they’d ever showered together. Wash herself, turn off the water, open it, click, screaming at him that he never did anything he said he was going to do. Close it, click, him screaming back that it was her fucking house, she could fix the stupid fucking shower door.
She closes Outlook, opens a spreadsheets, stares at numbers. None of them make sense. Whoever put this bill of materials together is an idiot. She hates idiots. She was an idiot. She hates herself. She moves her mouse around and clicks it in places. It’s a different sounding click, so it’s okay.
She’d never even noticed the click before, living in the house for three years before he’d shown up. She’d go to the gym, go to yoga, go on a hike and come back filthy, get in the shower, get out again, the door opening and closing so many times a day. Never noticed it. Then he came along. They met at a bar, for the love of Jesus. A fucking bar. He was sweaty, she asked him why, he said he’d been playing squash and he wanted a beer to recover before going home. Seriously? Squash? Who the fuck plays squash? Assholes who sleep with fat tramps who also play squash, that’s who.
She thought he was cute, he said he liked her smile. blah blah blah, dates, fucking, moving in together, his sweaty clothes on the laundry room floor, the way she hogged the covers, pining for sushi, why couldn’t they stay home just one fucking Sunday and watch the game, when are you going to do what you said and fix this fucking door, it’s your fucking house, you fucking fix it, no more cute, no more smiles, the stink of that fat tramp on his sweaty workout clothes, accusations, revelations, empty closets, good fucking riddance, crying for a few weeks, and the click click click click of that goddamned door.
Frowning at the spreadsheet. She could just leave it as it is. The customer would reject it, and then it would come to her, and she would fix it, and look like a hero. Why fix it now? Why make someone else look good? Or of not good, adequate. Actually, adequate would be just fine. He’d been cute, but not gorgeous. In bed, he tried to damn hard. Amazing gets old after a while. Adequate stands the test of time, gets the job done, doesn’t give you a sore back trying to impress you. Adequate doesn’t tell you that fat tramps like how hard they try, how they feel appreciated for a fucking change.
Enough. The shower door is miles away, literally miles away, who cares, think about it later, there’s this stupid bill of materials and some awful coffee in the break room and a meeting in a few hours with her boss and some douchebag who’d oversold again and then after work she could go get some sushi and wander around a book store and end up in the magazine rack again because who cares if she likes People and Us we can’t all be intellectual squash playing assholes who read The Economist. Only fat tramps who go down on squash playing assholes like assholes who read The Economist.
Damn it. Why was she thinking about the clicking? The click and the guy in the next cubicle telling someone he’d have the document done by Thursday and the click and now he’s saying he’s still waiting for legal to approve the changes and the click and now he’s laughing at his own joke, something about pens and click the tinny speaker phone voice asking him to set up a call with the click everyone who the click was on the click the call the click last week click. Click.
She stands up. Peers over the cube. He’s surfing the web with one hand, the other hand holding a pen, clicking it, clicking it, click-clicking it. The phone says something, he puts the pen down, stabs the mute button, says Yes, that’s right, stabs the mute button, picks up the pen again.
Could you not do that? she says.
He looks around, confused, finally looks up at the top of the cubicle wall.
The pen. The clicking. It’s driving me crazy.
He blushes. The look on his face of sheer terror. It’s kind of cute. Oh god. I’m so sorry.
She smiles. It’s okay. She looks at him for a few seconds, until he smiles back.
She sits down and looks at the screen. The bill of materials isn’t really that bad. It needs work, but it’s not going to ruin anyone’s day. She closes it. Lunch time? Close enough. She stands up. That’s all she wanted, really. Just for some to say I’m sorry.