Landslide by Jenn Cooksey

stumble onto one still in the wrapper way in the back of the cupboard. I blow off the package and then wipe it down with my hand to clean off all the little pieces of lint and hair shavings, the whole search and rescue mission indicating that I’m all about manscaping and keeping my body tidy and presentable, but I’m clearly lousy at housekeeping.
    With that thought in mind, I stand up and try to look at my reflection through all the toothpaste and shaving cream spatter on the mirror, and then I shrug. I mean what am I going to do? Go on a cleaning frenzy seconds before a girl uses my bathroom? Plus, it’s just Erica and in the shape she’s in tonight, I really doubt she’ll give a shit that there’s a pair of my boxers next to the towel on the floor or that there’s two, maybe three forms of my hair along with a couple of used Q-tips cohabiting the sink.
    Huh. On the other hand, though, I’d really hate to give credence to Erica’s somewhat recurring pet name for me…
    I quickly grab up the towel and underwear, pitch the Q-tips, run the faucet and splash water on the sides of the sink to send any and all forms of my DNA down the drain, and just to be safe, I give the toilet a flush and then lift the lid to check for anything that might make a girl think twice before sitting down; like yellow of any kind, be it the general color of the toilet water, rings in the bowl, or drip spots on the seat from the occasional need to whiz early in the morning or late at night when I’m not so steady on my feet, but still for some reason don’t think to take a leak sitting down. And, this should go without saying, but I of course look for floaters. I almost use the towel to wipe down the counter and mirror, but decide against it. I mean let’s not get carried away here. Checking for overly buoyant and stubborn turds that refuse to be flushed is one thing, but homo or hetero, every guy’s gotta draw a domestic line somewhere and it looks like mine is drawn in toothpaste on a bathroom mirror.
    Perversely proud of myself for taking a stand that will never be known to anyone bar Mr. Clean and those scrubbing bubble guys, I walk back into my bedroom in the knick of time to see Erica wipe her leaking eyes and runny nose with her hand, which is of course immediately followed by the usage of my new sheets to dry said snotty hand before she stands up to face me. She kicks off her heels, one of which is broken, and instead of sliding her stockings down her legs to take them off, she just starts pulling at the holes, looking lost and alone in the chasm of heartache that Holden’s death has opened inside her. Not being able to take the painful sight and sound of her struggle, I set both the toothbrush and dirty towel down and grab a pair of scissors off my desk. Pulling the pantyhose out from under the garters and being careful to not catch her skin, I cut the tattered remnants of her nylons from her body, letting them just fall to the floor rather than making the effort to get them into the trashcan where they’ll be right at home now.  
    Smoothing her hair away from her face and kissing her forehead, I take her hand and guide her the few feet to my small, yet adequate, pigsty of a bathroom. I also find myself having to help her with the buttons of her blouse and after that, I reach inside to the back of it to fumble with the clasp of her bra when her shaking fingers won’t cooperate. Going the extra mile without knowing if I need to or not, I unbutton her skirt as well and fight with the zipper that I discover had also been ripped from its seams during her earlier outburst. I watch to make sure she steps out of the skirt without tripping, but noticing a smallish gash just below one of her black satin-clad butt cheeks, I stop her from stripping any further and kneel down so that I’m basically eye level with her ass, but can see well enough to remove the sliver of brown glass that’s faintly catching the light. While I’m down