At the bottom of the claw-foot tub, facedown, under an inch or two of water, lies the photograph. I say lies meaning “rests,” but the word is full of unrest, too, for in telling the truth the picture has captured falsehood.
Contradictions, irony – they’ve become part of my life.
It is cold in the room, the chill of the tile floor coming through the throw rug between tub and toilet, the rug that slips into corners or curls at one end, a canvas of sorts, to trace our footsteps. The tub is slippery, too, with a stain the color of fall leaves that runs in a ragged path to the drain. I kneel beside it, not caring that the edge is wet and my sleeves are damp. I kneel and see the reflection from the safelight break into pieces as I run my hand through the water, making waves…
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