Shirtless, Dad spends days digging out the old grout, mining the blackened seams, the ropes of rotted sealant that slither under the chisel until the tiles float, gouged. Then he slicks in the new grout. Thick slabs of it cushioning where the wall meets the tub. White piping on a butterscotch cake.
high tide
After that, the instructions. How to slick down the shower curtain using a wet hand on the tile, creating a seal to prevent drips. How hot to run the water. The extractor fan on, the bathmat centred, the door, ajar, the length of shower, in minutes. How to wipe down the tiles, leave the cloth at the end of the shower rail, wrung, folded. He inspects how I’ve done, comes to find me, dripping in my towel, tells me how to improve next time.
jellyfish tug against
the swell
This story I tell new boyfriends, therapists, saying, ‘See? See?’ and when they don't, I go back to the beginning. And tell it all over again.
