Poetry: When i Must Take Leave of You

Pink Tiles (super-short story)

     Every time I go into this tomb of a bathroom, I cringe.  It is cold in the bathroom in the winter.  But that is not what makes it so unpleasant.  The water periodically turns ice-cold; however that is also not what makes it so unpleasant.  The bathroom is small and inconvenient, and the boys always miss.  The sides of the toilet and the floor around it always have to be cleansed of that urine and odor.  The faucet is incessantly dripping, no matter who or how many times it is fixed.  But I don’t mind any of that at all. The sole reason I hate this bathroom is the pink tiles.  They are ugly pink “project” tiles.  There is no glow to them, they aren’t bright, hot or even pastel; pastel I probably could deal with.  No, these tiles are dull, dusty, dirty-pink tiles; that’s what they are.  And I am stuck with them.

           Everyone has left for the day for work and to school.  I was to be the last person to leave the house.  But I couldn’t leave right now if I wanted to, because I am stuck here for the duration, stuck on the ugly, ominously slippery, pink tiles.  My husband works all day, and he has been taking overtime; my children go to after-school programs.  So, as I said, I am here for a while.  And these tiles are enough to drive a person screwy. 

     I was getting out of the shower when the next thing I knew wham, down I fell like a sack of fucking potatoes.  I must have hit the back of my neck on that stupid marble waste basket I splurged on, to try to make the bathroom more pleasant; or maybe I hit my head on the corner of the wall.  It feels like the gloomy pink is seeping down and into my neck.   My legs are immovable, like the tiles in this room.  No matter how hard I think, I cannot get them to move.  I am able to move my arms with great difficulty; but if I only could still manage to pull that shower curtain and block those wall tiles.  I want to stop them from mocking me.  They are also as dusty pink as the floor tiles, and they are dancing for joy at my plight.  There are some places were the grout is thinner than other areas.  Some of the grout has the beginning signs of mold. It is time to bleach the walls again.  If I squint, the mold patterns look like tiny eyes peeping through: grout, mold, grout, mold, grout, mold, mold grout.  And when I follow the grout with my eyes, the tiles really do dance.

     Thirty-six floor tiles, yep thirty-six of ‘em, but the ones on the edge were half tiles.  Damn, this is a small bathroom.  Then there is a count of five hundred and twenty–six smaller bath tiles.  The least they could have done was to throw in a white one every now and then to break up the monotony of it all, the cheap bastards.

     Look at that! Even the friggin’ roach, who stumbled upon the pink puddle quite by accident, is scurrying to get away from it as fast as it can.  What a smart bug!  Not me, too much in a hurry to put back the bathroom rugs.  And because of this putrid pink atrocity of a floor, I am forced to spend my day surrounded by the color of sick, sarcastic laughter.  

     The floor tile is even preventing the puddle I am lying in from drying up.  What malice the little tile bastards’ show!  What did I ever do to these hideous tiles? Why do they weigh me down so?  The oppressive pinkness of it all makes me dizzy.

     I must have been here for hours now.  The light from the small window is dwindling.  After all, it gets darker earlier in the winter.  Someone should be coming home soon.  I’m certain that I shouldn’t sleep.  But I am tired now; maybe  … if ...  I…  just … rest…  my …eyes…