Cold Water

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I brace myself against the frigid water flowing, or more like dribbling, out of the shower head I should have replaced weeks ago. But there's still so much to unpack that I haven't gotten around to it, much less worrying about the color of the water running out of the kitchen sink. I make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow: if I get in the shower before the laundromat opens, there's usually some lukewarm water left for me.

When I looked for a flat I thought the rent on my place was a great deal. Little did I know it came with plumbing at the level of a 19th century project. But I like living in this part of town. I'm close enough to the tower to meet people, but my flat has a smaller chance of some freak accident. Like a fire. I'm scared to death of fire.

A scratch at the door cuts through my thoughts. 

"Alright, Jojo," I call over the patter of water. I turn the faucet. It sticks. I pull harder and it snaps off. I have to find the hardware store, I should explore the town. My sheepdog Jojo is waiting right outside the door. I swear if I were to find a job he would wait for me, soggy tennis ball in mouth, the whole day. I toss the ball down the hall and look for the newspaper I bought yesterday when I was walking Jojo. By the barber shop a nice man smiled to me. Maybe I will run into him today. I open the wanted ads, but so far my meager waitressing skills haven't taken me far. I turn to Jojo, splayed at the end of my sparse hallway. That dog is just great at catch. It's the bring back part we're working on.