God forbid if she was ever allowed to feel any form of happiness again. She had it squeezed dry from her sinewy hair; it dripped off the split-ends along with the residue of shampoo she forgot to wash off in her haste.
But what was she rushing from and hurrying to? What could have been more important that swabbing herself with a sponge and inappropriately fruity shower gel?
The phone was ringing.
Usually she’d let it ring. Ringringringringringringring. Drown it out with the stream of water from the aging shower-head. Sing loudly enough, badly enough, so that the tinny ringing would occasionally sound between verses.
-written on the train, Fukutoshin Line, Tokyo