The first day of house sitting, I water the succulents until they drown. That night I take a bath until I raisin.
I sleep with the hall light on and listen to the dogs rummage through the recycling, or is it the garbage?
One is a manic Labradoodle, the other a terrier who doesn’t blink.
I am 23. is is not my rst rodeo. At the beginning, you can let things slide.
The second day, I google “How to Masturbate for Women.” Experts tell me to set aside thirty minutes a day to practice. I make it to five before I stop, feeling like my own gynecologist.
In the afternoon, I drink a little bit out of every bottle in the basement bar. The Frangelico is shaped like Mrs. Butterworth, but sexier, with slimmer shoulders.
That evening, I walk the dogs in the backyard. Five laps a piece. The yard is mud. I try not to step in my same footprints twice.
On the third day, I practice masturbating. This time on the cracked leather couch in the basement. Ten minutes. I write my boyfriend I’ve texts but only send him one. Cereal for dinner; brandy, cognac, vermouth.
I wander the halls. I wander the rooms. They do not believe in mirrors. Something about keeping you from your true self. But I want mirrors all around. I want someone to see this.
Becca Yenser bartends and writes in Portland, Oregon. She is the author of several chapbooks, including Small, Bright Things and All Because of Saturday Night. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in Paper Darts,Metazen, Filter Literary Journal, >killauthor, and HOOT literary magazine. She is Writer-in-Residence at Mother Foucault’s Bookshop for the month of April, where a new collection of short fiction is in the works.
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