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I have a yellow bath mat. The yellow of diet margarine. The color is in sharp contrast to the dullness of the rest of the bathroom. Stained-tooth white shower curtain. Day-old-cheerios-in-milk beige toilet. Big-toe-toenail yellow-grey sink.

Over the past few days when sitting on the toilet, I've gazed, transfixed, at the new stain on the yellow bath mat. The stain of one droplet of blood. I don't know whose blood it is. I suppose it could be mine, but I can't remember the last time I bled, and if I can't remember the last time I bled, I'd think I would have noticed it by now. It might not be blood at all. I don't waste the time on thinking what else it might be, because it really does look like blood.

We showered today. First me, then you. At the end of it all, the bath mat was wet, and the blood stain had bled. Now, each time I go to the bathroom, I sit on the toilet and wonder at how that one small droplet has slowly become a very large, watered-down patch of overripe watermelon red. I wonder how it will end.

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