Two Weeks

She moved out two weeks ago Tuesday.

Left a wet towel on the bathroom floor—

not intentionally. She was carrying boxes.

She had a van double-parked.

I've been stepping around it.

Not carefully, not every time.

Some mornings I just didn't look down.

But I knew it was there.

This morning I picked it up.

It had gone cold and heavy—

the weight of it caught me off guard,

and the water ran down my forearm

before I made it to the sink,

soaked into the cuff of my sweatshirt.

The floor where it had been

was dry.

Which means it had been dry

for a while.

And I just kept going around it.

I wrung it out over the tub.

Hung it on the bar.

The floor is just a floor now.

I keep thinking about the weight of it.

How much water it had held

without anyone noticing.