He stopped shy of the bathroom door as his wife rolled over in bed; ‘Remember,’ she directed, ‘turn on the water before you get in.’ ‘I will.’ he said. ‘And don’t waste any!’ she warned. ‘Oh, I won’t.’
He closed the bathroom door and climbed out of his underwear. He stepped into the shower and slid the door shut behind him, assessing with hazy eyes the degree of the temperature knob. Disregarding his wife’s orders, he pressed the power button.
His childish eek reverberated from the shower enclosure out under the bathroom door and into the bedroom. His wife stirred but kept her comfort, mumbling ‘fucking eejit’ to herself.
The water warmed and into one cupped palm he dispensed enough body lotion to bathe a hippo. This he absently ran through his hair which in turn and without conscious malice ran down into his sleepy eyes. ‘Fuck!’ he yelped. His wife shifted her pillow, choosing against usual retort.
He washed his hair free of lotion and soaped his balls and cock — his “unmagical wand” as his wife put it. Using the same hand, he smeared lilac suds across his unkempt beard; Umm, flowery. He then searched the shower floor for shampoo, the inexpensive store brand his wife had bought solely for his use. Of course, as per custom, he reached for her shampoo, the pricey, celebrity endorsed brand that gave her fringe its business bounce. She had reminded him of this mistake several times, using one opportunity to propose a correlation between his forgetfulness and recent sacking as a delivery driver with Instant Cargo.
He washed his body free of suds and placed his palms flat against the blue and white checkered tiles. He rose his face to the showerhead and allowed each gushing nozzle to message his brow and nose. He opened his mouth to the sprout and began to swallow gulp after gulp of water. It would fill to the wall of his mandible teeth before being flushed away by the panicked mechanisms of the oesophagus. This he repeated until his belly resembled a giant blister. He endured one last fill, choking down the metallic tainted liquid before inhaling a mouthful of air.
He slid the shower door open and stepped onto the frizzy mat. He dragged his coarse towel across his limbs but took special care upon reaching his belly. He moved to the sink, opening the cabinet to retrieve his Flixonase. Taking it from the top shelf of mismatched depressants, it slipped from his wet fingers and landed onto the ceramic with a clatter; Oof! ‘What’s happening in there?’ his wife called, ‘Nothing!’ he shot back, ‘Well keep it down!’
He gave each nostril a quick spray of hay fever relief and surveyed himself in the mirror. His belly had expanded well beyond the cage of his ribs; he caressed it as pregnant women do their thriving bump. He poked his index into his belly button, giddy at the thought of how she would react. He replaced the Flixonase and turned to the door.
His wife lay in bed, one foot dangling over the edge, her pyjamaed left ass cheek to the ceiling. He moved near her, completely naked save for his ecstatic, vengeful expression. ‘Hey.’ he said, butting her dangling foot with his. ‘Hey, look at this.’ She twisted her head a tad to allow him to enter the periphery of her vision. Then a little more, and a little more, until she rested on both elbows and looked at him in astonishment. ‘What the hell are you doing! Why are you just standing there!’, she exclaimed.
He said nothing, only cocked two fingers and jammed them into his mouth. He jabbed and forced them deeper, deeper until he gagged with the repulsion of the act. ‘Jesus! What are you doing!’ his wife screamed. He jabbed and gagged until he finally, and with the eruptive force of a broken dam, ejected a torrent of shower water into his wife’s face. She collapsed onto the bed with the force, the deluge of water keeping her down. The water kept coming as so many raging rivers do until at last his belly drained. He took several deep breaths, panting with the exhaustion of the effort. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I told you I wouldn’t waste any water.’
-end-
all words are mine. if you enjoyed the piece, let me know.
Gene Murphy Writer 
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