“And you know she starts up when you’re out of sight. So stop taking forever,” he snapped.
I looked at the shampoo still running over my shoulders and felt something in me sink. There is a special kind of loneliness in realizing your exhaustion is invisible to the person living right beside you.
“She’s your daughter too.”
When I stepped into the bathroom the following morning, there was a digital kitchen timer taped to the glass shower door at eye level. Four minutes had already been set.
I waited for Gerald to smile and say he was kidding. Instead, he leaned against the frame, holding a second timer. “I have the same one out here. If the buzzer goes off and you’re not out, I’m shutting the water off at the main.”
“Gerald, that’s not funny,” I said, caught between shock and hurt.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” he shrugged. “I’m trying to keep the house running.”
“Are you serious?”
Gerald folded his arms. “Very.”
“I’m trying to keep the house running.”
