In the early morning, the clatter of boots outside my door wakes me up. Over and over, the door down the hallway opens, shuts, then sounds of pissing or sighing, then flushing, then more boots. Groggily, I swipe at my eyes. My hand comes away gritty and salty.
The tub doesn’t have a shower spigot. I peel off my clothes as the water runs. I look everywhere but at my body: the hooks on my overalls, the stains on my blue jersey shirt. I don’t feel comfortable just standing while the tub fills, so I step in and sit down. I feel a rush of gratefulness for the warm water. I use the lemony hand soap from the library to soap my hair, then I close my eyes and splash water over my thighs, stomach, breasts, face. Finally, when I feel clean, I scrunch way down on my back and submerge my head, enjoying the silence.
When I’m about to step out of the tub, I realize I don’t have a towel. Just one more thing to add to the list of things I need.
I brush water off my body, using my hands as best I can. I don’t have to worry about my hair, it’s still so short. I choose a clean long-sleeved shirt from the pile of Tanya’s clothes and then slip on my overalls. I almost forget to lock the door on my way out to work. My door.
