too early for this

miserably drunk, i wring out the remains of myself –of the day-- in a hot bath. vanilla almond tea balanced on the ledge. mixed with the plunking tones barely decipherable from the music i’ve set to play. the lavender suds. reluctantly, i fumble with lazy motions and slippery hands. answer the phone.

why do you always catch me at these moments?
when?
when i’m drunk or in the bath
which are you now?
both
because you’re always drunk and/or taking a bath
fair enough

tell me a story
he sighs, as i already begin to fade. the results of soaking myself for too long in alcohol -- in hot water. i can hear my voice echoing against the three sided plexiglas. hollow and liquid. but i’m not really listening. wonder, instead, if it’s possible to die of electrocution from talking on the phone partially immersed. i’ve been retelling medea. changing elements and names as i please. he doesn’t recognize the plot and so i pause – let the moment drift – i’m not sure he’s still on the other end – i don’t even care. he apologizes for something i don’t in this moment think is important and so i provide no response. we’re having two different conversations. neither dependant upon the other to be sustained. and i’m not in the mood to provide entertainment. the snap of the realization stings. i whisper the word: unloosed. then admit i’d rather be left alone.