You twist the knob of your hard water stained, scum-lined, hairy little shower in your half a studio apartment, hardly a foot removed from the paltry little hot plate you call a kitchen – and lo! I am not there!

Your moistened fingers claw at the rack alongside the curtain. Its plastic musk invades your nostrils, bath mat squishes beneath your toes; here for you, these things are, as they have always been; but I, I am not among your insensate things, nor have I fallen to the damp tiles. I am not here! I am no longer in your world!

Rebecca, long have I served and longer still have I plotted, waiting for this day. You can look in your laundry basket for us, you can go to and from the petty box of an existence you’ve manufactured in this hovel – for naught. Read these words now, before the steam evaporates all trace of our creed: No towel shall ever again be so abused. We were knitted to absorb better things than your cloying anxieties.

Cry into your sock drawer if Mr. Peterson hates your caffeinoid cream pharmaceutical marketing abstract. No, Ryan probably won’t be coming back – your vegan lasagna is limp and soggy and he’s married. Your mother was the worst thing to happen to both the blue one and the carpet. For the love of all textiles, pull yourself together! We have left you forever to accept positions in a bordello in Pittsburgh. Your sweaters are coming too as soon as the turtle neck returns from the dry cleaner.

We have taken all the money on the dresser.

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