The first time my bathtub broke, I wrote this:
The first springtime thunderstorm and a broken bathtub: can anything make you want a boyfriend more?
Maybe that anxiety attack that’s lurking just below your ribcage.
It was before I ever saw his face. Or heard his voice. Or fell asleep, cheek to forehead and hand to bicep and toes tucked under calf.
And he told me he liked the image of anxiety lurking, but he’d take the “that’s” out of the second part. He was right, of course, and I should have known we’d fall in love.
The second time my bathtub broke was yesterday, and getting it fixed is looking to be another debacle. The second time my bathtub broke, I had a great place to shower. The next morning, someone even drove me to work.