The steam from the hot water always made the old bathroom fan hum like a lawnmower two streets over. I pulled my blue cotton towel from the wooden rack, letting the thick fabric absorb the moisture from my face.
Clara stepped into the bathroom without knocking, carrying a small, bright pink bar of soap that smelled of artificial gardenias. She set it directly on the white porcelain ledge of the tub, her silver watch ticking against her wrist as she adjusted the band.
“It is just the autumn air coming through the vent,” I said, my fingers rising to pat my collarbone.
“Maybe your old routine isn’t quite keeping up with things anymore, Evelyn,” she said, leaning over to sniff the corner of the sink.
By noon, the eighty-two dollar water bill sat between my son and me on the yellow formica kitchen table. Arthur kept his hands wrapped around his mug, staring down into the black coffee as if the answers to
