by Shane Kowalski
I drove home. I opened the fridge. I took out the milk. I took out a glass. I poured the milk into the glass. I took off my shirt. I took off my pants. I took off my shoes and socks. I took off my underwear. I stood naked in my kitchen and held the glass of milk over my head. I poured the glass of milk over me. I poured another glass of milk and poured it over me again. I repeated this process three more times. I let the milk drip around my lips, into my eyes, down my chest. I let milk splash the floor around my feet. I took out my phone. I took a photo of myself. I took another photo. I took three more photos from different angles. I was drenched in milk. I sent the photos to her. I looked at the floor around me. I looked at the milk on the floor. I would have to clean this up later, when it would be much harder, take more time. I would do it though. I wiped myself off with two kitchen towels. I wasn’t all the way clean, but there was no more time. I put on my underwear. I put on my socks and shoes. I put on my pants. I put on my shirt. I put the milk back in the fridge. I drove back to work.
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Shane Kowalski lives in Pennsylvania. He is the author of the story collections Small Moods and Are People Out There. His work has appeared in Harper's, Conjunctions, EPOCH, Fence, Cleveland Review of Books, and elsewhere.