a hard summer rain, it couldn’t last long. But her eyes were still producing plenty and her vision remained blurred, so she could just be kidding herself.
She tried to set the knife down but missed the edge of the counter. It was the same light shade as the floor, and she couldn’t trust that she could see it well enough. Maybe her eyes hadn’t slowed their leaking after all. Shuffling across the kitchen, she felt her way toward the bathroom, almost clearing the dining room before the knife knocked into something solid. She felt the back of what had been matching chairs. So she'd cut a chunk out of one, a little wood filler and it would be good as new.
Luckily, the August sun blazed through the high south window of the bathroom, and she could, thank god, follow that much light. The feel of carpet gave way to bathroom tile and she slowly lowered the knife, heard the rattle of metal on ceramic and pushed it until it stopped at what had to be the baseboard. She straightened and began to feel her way towards the shower. It seemed a better, bigger place to aim for than the sink, and she could warm up from the chill of a soaked shirt.
She grabbed at the row of towels and felt the first hunk of soft cotton. The second one she reached for fell to the floor, but she clung to the last one. If she used it like a rope, she could measure her way to the shower stall. A couple of steps and the porcelain tub stopped her progress. She felt it crack into her right shin and might have sworn on her way down to her knees. Had life come to this? The question wanted to skitter across her mind, but she stopped it because optimism could work in any situation.
She'd start with the good news. The good news? Well, despite the searing pain her shin bone radiated, she wasn’t crying any harder. It wasn’t even real crying. It might not even count since she felt like she was leaking. There was none of the hitched breathing and sniffling that had accompanied every crying spell she’d ever had, not that she could remember the last one. A couple of years before there’d been an orphaned girl movie she’d seen with Missy when her daughter had loved dark teen drama. She might have cried at the end of that one too.
Still on her knees, she unbuttoned her blouse, so clammy it made her shiver to touch it. She’d have to get it in the washer as soon as she could see and, of course, after she’d gotten the chili simmering. Her bra, wet as well, she tried to rest on the blouse but couldn’t see clearly enough to be sure she’d succeeded. She stood, the throb of her leg reminding her to scoot back from the direction of the tub just in case. The capris slipped off, the wet waist band cold along her hips. The underwear was mostly dry. Things couldn’t be too bad if your underwear were okay. If paramedics were called in, she’d have that going for her.
She felt for the tub with tentative sweeps of one hand and heard the swoosh of shower curtain. She pushed it aside, lifted her foot higher than the tub rim could possibly be, and stepped into the slight grain of the tub floor. She’d never noticed the texture before. Necessary, she supposed, to prevent accidents, and god knew a woman blinded by her own tears, hands covered in onion juice, husband run off, daughter running off, needed to be protected from falling on her ass.
The shower knobs were easy, a sixth sense in your own home. You always knew how far to turn the cold, the hot, to give you the right mix. She reached for and knocked over three bottles before she gripped one. A shampoo? Body wash? A conditioner that would just seal the tears into her skin? Whatever it was, pushing on the top of the bottle didn’t pop it open. Apparently everything needed to be difficult. She gave up, unscrewed the lid and threw it over the shower curtain. She squeezed the bottle and a gush of something lavender-scented filled her palm and slipped between her fingers. She rubbed her hands over her hair, face, along her throat, and between her breasts down to her waist, the path her tears had taken. She turned into