Steam sticks to the glass. The room is small, red coppertops out the open window. He’s grunting and I think he expects me to moan but a fake moan is the least sexy thing I can imagine. A high pitched hog, the bleat of a pissed off billy. He pulls the straps of my jock, wraps them around balled fists. Tight against my stretch-marked ass. My cat is scratching at the door hoping to rub his head against everything inside for the 300th time. The laundry in its basket, unfolded, unsorted. Dutiful fuck, a to-do list writes itself. He comes, I stay.