005/100 aka 145/365

OBSESSIONS
Word Count: 492

The girl in the television commercial scrubs her face as if she were laying cement. Trowels moving like ice skaters over the surface. I am inspired.

I use a gardening soap of pumice. It is rough and tears pleasantly at my skin. When the lather becomes slippery and annoying, I rinse off with hot water and a cold splash to exacerbate the stinging that tells me that for a little while, I am clean.

Today is Monday and on Mondays I go through my clothes because on Tuesdays and Saturdays I do all the laundry. I unfold all my underwear to look for spots, stains that I may have missed. I throw those away. Then I go through my jerseys, my sweaters, my nightgowns and slips, before I move on to the closet.

Here I’m a bit more forgiving. Not with the clothes but the shoes. Shoes are expensive and so I clean and re-polish them. I’m through the dresses and skirts when I find a dull reddish stain on the pink blouse with the pleated front that I got from my mother a few years ago. I sniff it. Scrape at it with a fingernail. Spray with a stain-releaser and rub it but nothing so much as fades it, spreads it, affects it at all. I fold it so I can’t see the stain and lay it on the bed until I go through the rest. It’s the last gift I’d gotten from her. I hold it out and inspect the rude streak that screams like a wound. It makes me cry. I cut off the sleeves, the buttons, the collar, and finally I cut it in half.

My boyfriend thinks I am crazy and he won’t move in with me which is fine. He only stays overnight if he falls asleep after we make love and I’ve washed his penis with a warm wet cloth and towel and have changed the sheets so we can snuggle. Most times he goes home to his own apartment which is just a few blocks away.

The first time he slept here and woke up in the morning I stayed home from work cleaning up. I like things being in order and clean. I never complained, just suggested that he put used towels in the hamper. Rinse out his cup and plate before putting them in the dishwasher. Not leave his jacket and guitar on the couch, nor his shoes anywhere but the hallway on the mat where I keep mine. Side by side, toes pointing north.

Tonight he didn’t come over. I worry that he’s cheating on me. I could not tolerate that. Not knowing if he washed off all trace of her. I know all the places of him, the sweet scent of his breath. His hair smells of pine tar shampoo. His body of musk. If he makes love with somebody else, I’ll know, because he won’t smell clean.