Domestic Fighting in the Bathhouse

When a woman with a thick Southern accent begins to scream at her husband/son/lord-knows-who the only parts you’ll be able to understand are the curse words. Motherfucker and fucker tend to rise like cream to the top of the stew percolating out of her mouth in hysterical blasts. Like a child sobbing too hard to breath. “Godddamnyou-undescernable-my-job-asshole-lazy-somethingrhymingwithshoe?” —Then a wheezing pause. Punctuated with stomping. Like a horse counting to three with its hoof. Then as if words have lost their purpose she screams. Like an air raid siren, “IIII-EEEEE-IIIII-EEEE-UUUUUUU-come-on-i-ain’t-afray’d-ah-u-tired-o-ur-shit! I kill ya!”

And then the door slams and she’s quiet. And I’m stuck in the shower. My eye watching the door handle.