My legs must just be dry, I thought, and I went to the spa where a woman in black
panties and bra scrubbed until the skin rolled off like old pieces of erasure.

But the more time I spent in the pools and feet up in the steam room (I snuck
in every time a friend fell asleep somewhere, the pull like a volley or pendulum)

the roughness came back. I started sleeping in the bathtub, and when it got
cold, I pretended I was too drunk to notice but really, I loved it. My husband

lifted me up and asked me not to drink so much, but the sheets, well everything
really, felt like large-grain sandpaper, every object about to break through.

I showered so much the grout came up and the floor caved in. Before it all leaked
beneath the door, our small bathroom was the lake I’ve always wanted. My legs

had turned so scaly I couldn’t walk, not dignified anyway, and now that the bathroom
was broken, we went to the beach, and my husband had to carry me. He’s a saint

or kinda like one, and he watched as I swam away. I used to try and visit him
but he’s so afraid of sharks he wouldn’t come into the water, and you can’t maintain

a relationship with someone who is always on shore. You have to get rid of all that
negative energy, you know? Spend a little time on yourself.

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