I’ve heard that most men have lousy aim, a fact I’m trying hard to forget as I lay here on the porcelain tile staring up at the vent fan over the toilet.
The nausea hit me out of nowhere. I guess that’s how it happens, though I never expected it’d happen to me. Sometimes the universe has other plans.
Another wave of nausea builds like a tsunami and I brace myself against the edge of the bowl, but there’s nothing left inside me, so I just spit and stare at my reflection. I flush and for a moment I vanish. A brief freedom until the bowl refills and I’m once again floating in toilet water like a turd.
I pull the hand towel off the bar and stuff it behind my head as I lay back. It’s not much of a pillow, but it’s a small barrier to the invisible urine mist I’m sure coats the floor where my face had been laying earlier. Clutching my stomach, I feel overcome with regret.
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at my husband who is draped over the edge of the bathtub. His face is flushed and dripping with sweat.
“No more sushi,” I moan. He shakes his head and a thunderous growl echoes from deep within in his gut.
“SWITCH!” he yells. I roll out of the way as he hobbles towards the toilet with legs crossed and cheeks clenched. I flop over the side of the tub like I’m about to take fire just as he drops his pants and collapses onto the toilet. I scramble to pull the curtain closed, but it offers little protection. My eyes and nose feel like I’ve rubbed the wasabi from dinner directly on them.
“Definitely no more sushi,” he moans from the other side of the curtain.
Jennifer Fox is a western New York native and MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. She is a staff reader for Thirty West Publishing House and Bandit Fiction. Her work has appeared in Across the Margin, The Daily Drunk Mag, The Write Launch, Disquiet Arts, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Twitter:@jennfoxwriter