✧ push picks #056 ✧

Burrito in the bathtub
The bathtub is too pristine to be at home: there’s no lingering hairs that never quite made the journey down the drain or the faint film line that suggests there was once another body laying in this porcelain cradle. Lavender body wash is held hostage by a metal harness under the shower head. I guess even in a place this sublime, you’ve got to keep your guard up. There’s no mold between the sand colored tiles; no evidence of a neglected domestic responsibility. I pump the milky soap like a teenager ejaculating, making cloudy puffs of bubbles instead of embryos. The kind of enthusiasm I exude over bubble pumping is exactly the kind that I instruct my children against. “Don’t waste all of our soap, only take what you need."

At a perfect 12 o’clock angle, the faucet is thunderously pouring out the hottest water I can get while I unpack my uneaten burrito from a shiny tin lunch box.  Here I am slipping into the lavender infused body tea unwrapping a bean burrito that was once toasted as suggested by the dark brown circles polka dotting the white flour tortilla. Now it’s cold, and I’m cold, my knees are cold after being bone soaked on the open range riding a gentle horse named Jose. I keep turning on the hot water over and over again just like I tell the boys not to do. “Baby, you’ll use up all the hot water. Don’t waste the water.” 

Bite one: pure tortilla, predictable

Torsos are funny after you’ve been a body apartment for a baby. They move like accordions forcing you to reintroduce yourself to so many of your own flesh shapes. Hard belly, doughy belly; cute boobs, pornographic breasts; innie belly button, outie and then back again… or not. In the bath I formally acquaint myself with all the new freckles that made it to my thighs and acknowledge a familiar stranger: a cluster of spider veins by my knee that look like twirling rivers viewed aerially from an airplane window seat. Before getting on an 18 row plane to come here, I unsuccessfully begged my relatives for a xanax. I’ve never been on a plane this small, swallowed by thick rambunctious clouds; I’ve never been gone this long from the people I wake up and fall asleep next to. 

Boarding the plane there was a really young guy with tan knees and curly blonde hair. He had a service dog with him and I thought judgmentally, “psst, you lied to get him here, try leaving two small people whose bottom lips tremble when you use the bathroom. Toughen up.” Flash forward to mounting Jose, with his black mohawk mane and perky ears. I was all pet names sweetie, angelface, darling boy, honeypie and caresses. Is this equestrian guide my service son?  Or am I his service guide? Are we guiding each other? 

Bite two: Some beans and the suggestion of something green.

The bathroom is flawless just like the two beds on the other side of this door, crisp and unblemished. There are no signs of prior life in this room, no greasy fingerprints on the window or dirty socks in the corner.  It’s as if this room was made just for me for the very first time by invisible labor that makes a person feel secure like in the grocery store. Everything in its place waiting for you.

Bite three: a bounty of decadent avocado revealed, like pushing aside a well plucked strawberry plant only to find you've missed a cluster of fever red fruits in the back.

Bubbles get into my plastic side container of salsa. This kind of incident might illicit “Sweetie you can’t bring food in the bathtub. Let’s be patient and eat something downstairs when you’re done cleaning your body.” 

In the reflection of the shiny metal faucet I see my tan lines and the bright salsa. It’s the good kind of bright not the color of the ones that make the popping ones when you open the can for the first time. The smokiness of the roasted tomatoes, the bleach from the shower curtain mixed with the herbal smoking bathtub make me feel well attended to. All the hands behind the smells so I could be warm, clean and break the rules. 

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