Mrs. Dali Takes a Bath Gala looks to her left and finds her (par)amour’s hand absent. How can it be? She turns her head further and sees the slope of the bathtub against her back. The water trembles like a blanket as she sighs, rubbing her shoulder with her own thumb instead. Will he come to dinner tonight? Or has he discovered the sag in her breasts, her imminent old-ladyness? She runs her palms over her nipples, tries to recall kissing the forehead of a little girl she once suckled, and can’t. Did it never happen, or has the memory merely bubbled away, away in a champagne of oblivion? She hugs the latter idea to her biceps and slides lower into the water. Loverless, ungrateful-childless, she pictures herself basking in the nearby Mediterranean, foam and all, while a younger, clean- shaven Salvador throws in rose petals from the shore. Grain by grain, her childhood slips from beneath her feet, and she begins to follow it out to sea, trailing behind her the hair she has started to count in strands instead of locks. Gala glances at the bathroom door, then caresses each thought to be washed away one more time when she pulls out the plug and rises from the tub. Salvador is peering through the keyhole. In his vision, he juggles Gala’s heavenly bodies. Katherine Huang Katherine Huang, who often goes by Kathy, is a graduate student in genomics and computational biology at UPenn. Her work has appeared in Rattle (Ekphrastic Challenge) and The Oakland Review. When not writing or sciencing, she enjoys dancing and taking naps.
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September 2024
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