The sound in the bathroom appears to be a dead woman. A dead woman! In the bathtub! So near to where we brush our teeth together. So near to the room where we beat each other in so lovingly. It was a disaster, you say, from the beginning. A nightwalker in white slinking though the kitchen slamming doors doesn’t cure you. We bang on walls, Morse code, to speak. We grab into each other, push in, all water caressing rocks down to sand, all growls curling this house into a river. The erosion there. The forgetting is wet enough to force hands through.