by Elizabeth Jeane
As soon as Dr. Mook dismissed us, I left for my apartment. I couldn’t stand the stale stench of disappointment wafting off us. Five other seniors beside me with faces contorted, trying not to cry. Our thesis presentations, a culmination of four years of work, had been rejected.
Once home, I found myself drawn to the bathroom.
Half-naked, balanced on the rim of the bathtub, I reached for my shower caddy. I gripped the metal body of my razor in one hand and twisted the rust-spotted knob. The faucet coughed to life, spilling a shallow biscuit of steaming water into the porcelain tub.
Flinching at the heat, I instinctively hovered my feet and braced my palms like I was stabilizing on a balance beam.
With a dip of my toe, I tested the water once more—hot, but survivable. I cupped water into both hands and coated my legs. It was humane, the cleansing water meeting my dry skin. I sat, strangely soothed by the warmth trailing from my knees to my plain cotton panties. I reflexively thought about removing them but privately enjoyed the chaotic sensation, like showering fully clothed.
I took my time, lathering lotion up and down each leg, then delicately shaving off each little hair visible across the expanse of my skin. The razor so dull it demanded explicit pressure. I prioritized precision: circular and purposeful, like a painter with a brush. Each stroke collected a small army of hairs nestled into the five blades.
Sad music, swallowed by the bathroom fan, leaked tinny and static from my phone.
When I finished, I sat in the lukewarm puddle for a moment before beheading the razor and placing its body on the floor like an offering.
No one warns you you’re ordinary, I thought.
I shifted to the toilet beside the tub—so close I could watch the bathwater spiraling away. I sighed at the lone square of toilet paper dangling from the cardboard roll and briefly considered using the tube itself. In the end, I let the flimsy square pretend to do its job.
I washed—sanctified—my hands in the sink, and as I did, the music finally separated itself from the apartment’s quiet, like the heater humming awake. Professional vocals with awful lyrics. I hated myself for listening to it. For believing the ridiculous fantasy I’d mooned over for years—that one day my journal entries might be studied, quoted, argued over in dim-lit bars.
I had given it my best this time. I didn’t stumble; I never uttered an “um” or a “like.” I spent hours on visuals, days on rehearsal, months on the concept. Rejected.
I rifled through my kitchen drawers, still pantless, in search of a snack sugary enough to soothe but not junk enough to agitate. My tears pressed against my eyes, begging. I shoved an expired carton of milk to the back of the fridge and snatched a Colby Jack cheese stick.
No one warns you rejection is so unromantic, I thought.
The gray, torn couch in the corner waited expectantly for me to give in: to hole up, to watch hours of TV, to weep, and to call Mom, begging for a reminder I’m worth something.
But something in me tightened, a straightjacket sensation stiffening my spine.
I yanked my backpack open and unearthed my computer. I sat on the kitchen stool, rubbed my neck, and nodded along to the silence.
A blank document glared back, the cursor blinking like a manic pulse.
No one warns you how easy it is to sink.
I typed aggressively: a condescending catharsis of the thesis rejection, the cling of wet cotton, the fantasy version of my life.
Elizabeth Jeane is an emerging writer and MFA candidate at Butler University. She lives in Indianapolis, where she tutors students and is at work crafting her first poetry chapbook. Find her on instagram @elizabethjeanewrites.