freshman

by Kathryne McCann

Water rolls down your body, tracing your ribs, finding your hip bone and falling below just as his fingers did not even an hour ago. Each droplet on a path south, and you shiver, wrapped in steam. Forgetting no longer seems to be an option, so you wash away his touch, letting your skin go red under the gush of a dial turned all the way to H. You scrub and scrub and scrub, replacing the feel of him with the scent of lavender and lemon. Your feet shuffle and squeak in your shower shoes. The girl in the stall next to you is singing. You were there before her. You will be there long after she leaves.

Your tears mix with water and conditioner and you hold yourself, fingers digging into flesh. You whisper regrets into a shared dorm drain. You wonder how many secrets these tiles have caught, how many slates the shower head has wiped clean, what cries the ceiling fan has heard.

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BIO: Kathryne McCann is a Latina writer currently pursuing an MFA in fiction at Emerson College. She works as a journalist, teaching artist and as an administrative assistant for a writing-focused nonprofit. Her work has previously been published by Fractured Literary.