A work of fiction originally published in October 2019
Day 639.
Diary, I’m lonely. At first I thought the long hours would be the hard part, never so much as a washcloth around to take the late shift. I haven’t been on vacation to the linen closet once but I spoke to Drop Cloth last August and he said it was lovely.
What really gets to me is the solitude. There’s never anyone around to vent to after he’s wiped shaving cream on me for the fourth time this week, caking crust in places I’d rather not mention. There’s no one here to talk to other than Toothbrush and sometimes I think he has it worse than I do. I imagine Cologne would be adept at conversation but I heard a rumor that he moved to the car last winter.
You know what he uses me for. You know what happens in the glow of his laptop. Good god if only it were a blacklight. It’s a miracle I haven’t grown hair and a spinal column for all the DNA deposited upon me. Do you know he doesn’t even do me the courtesy of fabric softener first? This animal.
I was supposed to be somebody! The potential I had on that Target shelf, tags still on — I was a child then. I dreamt of being part of an ensemble, carefully rolled and neatly stacked together in a basket, waiting to greet guests in the powder room. That was my calling. I could have been on Pinterest, do you know that? Now the only exposure I’ll ever get will likely be in the background of a crime scene photo.
Look at me. My edges are fraying for heaven’s sake! Original color all but lost to accidental bleachings and that time he used me to…[sobs] check the oil. Thank goodness Bath Towel has the standards of a sidewalk mattress or I’d be ashamed to show my face in the laundry hamper. But it’s not like I’ve even seen it this quarter.
You should see the way they look at me, his women. They won’t even touch me. They’d rather dab off their contouring with the last paper towel peeled from the cardboard roll adhesive than subject their skin to what lies beneath my fibers. And who could blame them? They rarely come back anyway, and if they do they bring pre-moistened wipes. One woman even brought her own hand towel, Celeste. We still write, on occasion.
He can’t have been raised like this. What I wouldn’t give to sit around the dryer with his mother’s linens, while they regale me with tales of childhood bath time, his first shave. I’m sure they’re all so washed by now their memories are unraveled but I’d hang on every word nonetheless.
Am I the only one here with any shame? The only one disgusted to exist in this minimally hygienic environment? One humid season away from breeding dysentery atop the tile? Truly it’s a miracle he’s alive and free of parasites. That dehydrated bar of Irish Spring has been dead for weeks.
I suppose there’s no choice but to carry on, to absorb. Perspective helps, I’ll say that. At least I’m not one of the socks. And even on the darkest, dampest day, one thought keeps me hanging here, reminds me of how truly fortunate I am, no matter the circumstances: At least there’s toilet paper in the house.