Alan got the picture out of me a couple weeks before he posted it. He and another friend broke into my house when I was in the shower. They locked themselves in the bathroom with me and took out all the towels. I held the shower door closed while they talked about what they were going to do to me, laughing so hard they couldn’t keep their heads up straight.

I had the idea for the picture. I had been in the shower for almost an hour. I was shivering, deep fissures forming between the wrinkles on my toes, and my fingertips were starting to bleed, slipping on and off the awkward handle on the shower door. I knew I had to bargain with them, and I knew they would think it was funny. I talked them down from naked photos, convinced them that it would be much better if the pictures were a little softer, much better if the lighting was just sexy enough, if I posed just artsy enough. Eventually, they agreed. I made them promise that no one else would see the photos.

I thought about nothing while they positioned me on the red couch. It was a little harder than I remembered it being. I let most of my weight fall to my hip. The sound of the shower is deafening when I remember the photo shoot, even though I know we must have turned the shower off and gone upstairs. The photo is the only thing that is still clear in my mind, a frozen image without a caption.


When I go home I sleep on the same couch. It’s better than sleeping in the bed I grew up in, but I still keep all of my clothes on.  

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