Leonard mourned in the shower that morning. Stood under the cruel
sting of hard water and blubbered into the mist. Kin had left last
night, packed her silver suitcases with her lavender leotards and her
surplus of cheap silver. All was destroyed now; their daily ritual of
drinking Snowballs in the den, singing ragtime hits while sunbathing
in the driveway and their dalliances with chocolates moles and other
He reached down and grabbed the shampoo bottle, “Fancy Me”, he read
and remembered Kin picked it up at The Dollar Store. They had a good
laugh and had crazy, acrobatic sex that day in the shower, Kin cooing
“Fancy Me” in a strange sing-song voice as she rubbed his bottom. He
read the words on the back of the bottle and cried a little more:
“Lather, Rinse, Repeat”. He wondered who actually followed this
foolhardy advice—wasting shampoo, letting a myriad of bubbles pour
senselessly down the wretched drain.
And now he remembered Kin’s hair wasn’t very beautiful; more like an
elementary school mop that was tangled and dragged about by an old
janitor. He hated her nose, barely there—a Sharpie smudge and her body
in general reminded him of sacks of damp fodder left in a field. He
stopped the shower and recounted his life, now: Kin-less and plain.
The phone rang, it was Kin. “You can’t find that shampoo anymore. The
Dollar Store’s like that, find something, gone the next day,” she
cooed into the machine.