short story about a shower
Fingers raw and back weary, I twist the faux-crystalline knob and wince at the pipes’ angry shriek. Water sputters then rushes forth, splattering against the tiled floor in a patterned spray. Steam begins to rise, and I test the temperature with my hand—adjusting until it’s just shy of scorching—then step in. The first splash hits my shoulders, and I inhale sharply as the heat works its way into my tired muscles.
My feet ache and my eyes wilt, but under the water’s embrace, my thoughts finally flow free. Accompanied by liquid rhythm, I hear the narration begin in my mind; before me, unfolding in the steam, the events of the night replay themselves frame by frame.
In a disorienting symphony, laughter swells and music cracks. Around me, almost-known visages spin about—conversing and dancing. Admist the chaos, I sit with two familiar faces, exchanging words. We talk about the future—courses, careers, family—when suddenly, they share a glance and laugh in unison; an utterance used had unwittingly alluded to a shared memory I’m not privy to. Seizing the moment, one tells a joke I can’t quite hear over the music. I lean forward, eyebrows raised in question and anticipation. The moment stretches and they repeat themselves with greater force, but volume only provides partial clarity. In response, I nod and smile, feigning familiarity with names I’ve never heard and the places I’ve never been. Turning slightly toward each other, their banter continues, flowing with the ease of shared history.
In the steam, the scene loops and I turn the knob farther. The encore begins but as I watch the trio again, the water temperature surges, and I recoil, scalded. I adjust the knob slightly cooler. Across the tiles’ collected condensation, I imagine constellations. Maybe I’m overthinking it. They’ve known each other longer, of course they have private references and memories. It’s natural, not personal. I’m still here, aren’t I? They still brought me along.
Too cold now. I nudge the knob slightly and squeeze shampoo into my palm, working it between my pruned fingers. The bubbles form and pop. Through their distortions, I see fleeting reflections of the scene just witnessed: references to plans made sans dates and details, the niche but shared slang in their conversation, how my questions were obfuscated with knowing looks. With that, I come to a quiet realization which the shower seems to sing:
“There exists an indelible gap between you and everyone around you. Cursed to be entertainment but never a friend, you are Stańczyk. Your position matters not; whether centered in their gaze or lingering at edges, the distance remains unchanged. When the performance ends and the curtain falls, they may clap and they may leave, but you—you will remain on stage until the curtains rise once more. Gaze into the crowd—witness, dread, long, but never have.”
And then, silence. Through rising mist, I stare once more at the trio where I sit apart. With peers but peerless, I’d never felt so alone.