DIVINATIONS 
MAGAZINE

When we lived together, Mark took cold 6AM showers. He kept the water running against his back while he sudsed his hair and his body. He said the showers helped his patience because they were something to endure. He once dragged me into the shower and sprayed me with icy water to demonstrate. He wanted a big reaction. For me to cry. But I hated it too much for that. I cried easily but only about nice things. I didn't react and he quickly lost interest and let me go.

Still, I never got used to the sound of the high-pressure water drilling the ceramic tub. I would lie awake until the sound subsided. We had blackout curtains, so it was nighttime when he showered, even in summer, until 8PM when Mark pulled them open and the day began.

It put Mark on edge if I was awake when he returned to our bedroom. My presence disrupted his morning routine. When I heard the water stop, I would close my eyes and roll over, fall back to sleep. I still wake up now, but to silence. With no cue, I rarely get back to sleep.

Mark had travelled back home to see his family. I wanted to meet them but it was not possible. Mark had maintained that they spoke no Spanish and that my English was still embarrassingly bad.

A woman phoned me and said she was Mark's mother. There had been an accident. I had never heard her voice before but it was more nasal than I expected, perhaps she'd been crying. She spoke very quickly, and then slowly and condescendingly when I asked her to repeat herself. She told me it had been an accident and his heart had failed.

He had crashed into the river, when he flipped his vehicle over a safety rail.

I remembered that some people died instantly from plunging into freezing water. Their hearts stop from the shock. But it would not be that easy to kill Mark, he had built up a tolerance. He must have suffered. I tried to call his mother back, but she'd phoned me on a private number.

I couldn't attend the funeral.  I needed to give our dog Hector his medication too often.  Because I'd always worked from home, this had not previously been an issue. I'd found Hector in a dumpster the previous year. He was an old dachshund. He would always be sick. I referred to him as our son once and Mark looked at me with disgust.

On the day of Mark's funeral, I sat in my jogging bottoms on the couch.  I logged into work, not doing anything, but lingered ghost-like in the forums.

*

I still remember his face vividly, but don't have any pictures of Mark. There are three reasons for this. One is simply that we rarely went out.

Two is that Mark did not like having his photo taken, so I would always wait for him to ask.

The third reason is something that happened one night a few months before the accident. We were sitting on the couch, and I was trying to show him a photo of a bird I'd taken earlier. He was leaning over my shoulder. But when I clicked on my photos, there in my photos, was an entire gallery of Mark. Shot after shot, blurry and distanced, often at weird angles. They were from moments in public I recognized - at a cafe, a trip to the cinema - and more private moments - asleep in our bed, blending a smoothie, one long hairy leg emerging from the shower, with its little triangle tattoo on the hipbone.

Enraged, Mark grabbed the phone and flung it across the room. The TV split open, a large angry fissure bisecting the screen, but the phone bounced onto the carpet, unharmed. Mark dived for it, and I did not follow him. I did not want to touch it. My hands were shaking.

There was a lot of shouting then and there was only so much denying I could do before Mark got sick of hearing my voice. Some hours passed and Mark decided he was satisfied after watching me delete the contents of my photos, my backups, my iCloud storage, my Facebook and Instagram accounts.

He thanked me and dried my eyes, and told me he'd look into getting someone to come fix the television tomorrow. He kissed the top of my head, and went to get some sleep, taking the phone with him.

I stayed upright on the couch until I heard his alarm go off. When he came through I pretended to have passed out.

Mark got home that night in a perfectly good mood and we discovered the television still worked, so without discussing it, we decided to ignore the crack. It had looked worse the night before, and we were the only ones who would ever see it.

*

I wake up in the blue pre-dawn light, and I check the time as I always do, although it's pointless: I wake at 6AM each day, no matter what.

But something is different. It takes me a moment to recognize it as the fuzzy white noise of the showerhead. The water is running, hard and fast.

With Mark gone, I live alone. The neighbours are cautiously friendly to me, but they wouldn't report any noises from my flat. They never have before. It's not that kind of place. I've changed the locks. I put the chain on every night.

So now I press myself against the sheet and stare at the ceiling as the light turns dingy and grey, like an overwashed shirt. The shower stops. There's a moment's silence, and then I hear the bathroom door swing, footsteps speeding up the hallway. I shut my eyes and roll onto my side, just like I used to. I soften my breathing. The bedroom door opens, slow and steady. I feel a presence behind me, emerging through the doorway, pausing by the closet on the far side of the bed.

A wet, citrusy shampoo smell drifts from the person. I hear the pat-pat-pat of water droplets falling to the carpet, the tinkle of wire hangers being shoved this way and that, and then a body plodding to the other side of the bed, where there's more space. I feel the weight of the clothes he's selected being placed at the foot of the bed. Very slowly, I flicker one eye open, lash by lash. A male torso, standing in a towel, body fuzz backlit by the  morning light. He casts the towel off, folds it neatly on the bed frame. He's lifting the boxers he's chosen off the bed. I catch a glance of his hip, the triangle there. It's like an arrowhead, I follow it's point up his body, to his face. At that moment, his eyes flick downward, his gaze meets mine. I don't move. I don't breathe. But he stares blankly for a second, then carries on getting dressed. I shut my eyes tight. He does not approach me. I hear the sounds of clothing - the zip of trousers, the shrugging on of a blazer, the unsteady tug of pulling up socks. Stretching around his frame, the long-unused fabric, releases a scent that's stale and faintly perfumed, apple blossoms. And then I hear his footsteps retreat, moving confidently back down the hallway, until I can't hear anything at all.

I wake again, the sun shines hot, front and centre in the sky, casting the room in a rich glow. It's after 10:00. Everything appears normal, the closet door closed, the towel gone. I yawn heavily, releasing hours of breath. I stretch. I go through to the kitchen to start breakfast and that's when I hear it, very softly. A splashing sound. A squeak. Something inhuman but something alive. I follow it out into the hall, the bathroom.

The door is shut. I stand and listen. I hear it again, a splashing, followed by a tremulous whine, and suddenly I recognize the source. I burst into the room, the door is not locked. The tub is full, the water filthy. In it lies Hector, his little legs paddling weakly, too exhausted to keep himself afloat. His head is wet, it has bobbed beneath the water. When I pull him from the tub, he is unresponsive. I press my fingers into his chest until he spits water into my lap, but he doesn't wake up. His paws continue to twitch, rhythmically, unable to comprehend that the moment is over, that now is safe.