Alrighty then. Let’s Check Out the Bathroom.

Cucumber melon liquid soap, body spray and hand cream.  Tiny hand soaps in the shape of watermelon wedges.  It’s a fruit fucking salad in here, but I am not convinced.  This woman has something to hide.

The sink fixtures are smooth to the touch, contemporary, all Price-Pfister.  Lime-colored towels under the sink.  Lemony cleanser.  And Charmin bathroom tissue to dabble on her strawberry-flavored ass. 

I hate this bitch.

A fancy European showerhead sends down a wide shower like an April rain.  How convenient that you happen to be there completely nude, holding your loofah and bath gel. 

Not a speck of mold in between the tiles.

That’s it.  I’m moving on to where all women’s terrible secrets are kept:  I’m moving on to the medicine cabinet.

My fingers, in black leather, slink onto the backsplash, over the ivory wallpaper, and coast to a stop next to the mirrored medicine cabinet.  I want to prolong this moment.

Oh, fuck it. 

I open the mirror wide, with a grand gesture, ready to be shocked and horrified. 

But I’m not. 

There is not one single incriminating thing in here.  Not an eyedropper of Visine, not a can of anti-fungal spray, not even a tube of whitening toothpaste.   The only thing behind this medicine cabinet is a plain white recipe card with the following quotation penned carefully in blue ballpoint, and taped to the back of the cabinet:

“Thy faith hath made thee whole”.

You cunt. 

As I leave the bathroom, I hear the crash of two glasses and the unmistakable thud of a carton of milk hitting the floor. 

Her voice is panicked.  “Take me!  Take me!  She’s not ready!”

I run to the kitchen.  But she is gone.

She’s gone, and all the milk is spilled.