To all the women who are finding their self worth
in a society determined to keep us
quiet and meek.
Your voice and your strength matters.
It’s time to change the world.
You know how they say, “when it rains, it pours”?
Well, when the tenant in the condo upstairs leaves their bathtub faucet running for six hours and is unreachable because they’re on a plane to Cabo, it pours.
“Oh, Rhea.” Sunday stands beside me in her adorable red rubber boots, holding a mop. I’m so distracted by the water flooding my condo that I don’t even realize she’s arrived. When I called her I thought maybe it would be a smaller problem, but as the caretaker tries to access the upstairs unit the tub continues to fill, and now there is a solid two feet of water destroying every square foot of my place.
“I loved that couch,” I whine, my voice cracking a little. The long black velvet couch I bought with my first real paycheck is soaked through to the wood supports, and both it and I look like a rained-out cat.
“Neil Lancaster fingered me on that couch.” Sunday offers up the grossest memory she can come up with to make me laugh.
All five foot three of her beams with a certain kind of light; the kind you find at sunset during music festivals or at sunrise when you're still riding your bike around with your best friends at fifteen, at four a.m., during summer vacation.
“Ew,” I laugh.
She gives me a nudge, “pretty sure he finger-banged you there too, so don’t even start with me.”
“He was such a cute little man-slut. I almost miss him.” I nod, trying not to be absolutely depressed about my drowning living room. “He was British, right?”
“Irish,” Sunday corrects me. “He was so good at it.”
“It was the extra length on his middle and ring finger…” I stare across the living room sadly at the water still leaking down the wall. “His last name always threw me for a loop.” I sigh.
“It was veryEnglish…Have you heard from the caretaker?” She asks, leaning the mop against the wall. “This is bad.” Sunday looks from me to the damage and back to me.
“You think? My favorite couch is ruined, I just replaced the flooring, and I only got half my art off the wall, so my signed CM Punk poster is destroyed!” I say as calmly as possible. “This sucks.”
“Okay, okay… maybe it’s not that bad?” She holds up the soggy frame and chews on her lip. The poster itself is curled and warped inside the frame, and as she sets it down, the nails pop off the bottom, and the glass slides out, hitting the water with a heavy slosh.
“Sorry.” She grimaces.
“It’s okay, can’t make it any worse.”
“At least with the front door open, the water is draining into the parking lot?” She smiles at me.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s everywhere. My room, the kitchen, the bathroom. Everything is underwater,” I say, “this is not what I meant when I said I idolized Shrek’s swamp for its solitude.”
“You did say that,” Sunday gently laughs.
I wish I could see it like that, but I can’t seem to find a light in all the destruction around us. “The association emailed me saying that they’ll have someone in here to assess the damage as soon as the condo is dry.”
“That’s going to take weeks,” she scoffed. “Let Kaia talk to that old twit, what’s her name again?”
“We’re not quite atthreateningthem yet,” I brush her off. “Can I crash at your house for a couple of days?” I ask her, and she nods immediately. “I’m going to try to collect what dry things are left, and I’ll meet you for warm-ups in an hour?”
“Are you sure? Can I stay and help?” She suggests.
“I’ll be fine, I’d rather be alone in my sadness for a bit anyway. And that mop isn’t going to do much,” I add, giving her a soft, limp smile.
She stands there for a couple of minutes longer, hesitant to go.
