St. Paul Bathroom
Standing in the shower and looking down at the drain, I’m suddenly reminded of an odd phone call I received last Saturday night. It was Erica Heaton. Our connection was tenuous. She was a high school friend’s sister’s friend. I knew her little, and we hadn’t spoken in nearly twenty years. She said she got my number off Facebook and then asked if I wanted to go dancing at some club in Minneapolis. I said I had plans. We made awkward conversation and promised to stay in touch. Still studying the drain, I think I hear a voice in the living room, yet I know no one is there. The plot, like my hair, thins.
a box marked
“halloween”
where we end up