Dear . . .

It was lovely chatting with you last night. As promised, when I went to take my shower, I fantasized about you. I could feel my muscles relaxing as the hot water washed over me, and I imagined it was your hands. So yes, as I stood in the shower, sans pulsating shower head (or any head for that matter), I thought of you. But see, there’s this hole in my shower curtain. Really, it’s a rip. I’m not sure how it happened but everyday it seems to grow larger and while it still keeps the water in, it affords little privacy. So, whilst imagining all the dirty things we could do in that shower (and lucky my hands were merely smoothing the suds from my freshly washed hair) . . . A knife fashioned from styrofoam is thrust through the rip in the curtain and I hear a version of the "Pyscho" shower scene music. Then, the gleeful cackling of a nine year old. I’m kinda glad you weren’t there. We really have no shame. Of course, once I stopped laughing, it had sort of killed the mood. Maybe next time. Nanner