For our anniversary, my husband Thomas got me a new sink. 

It’s almost as if he’s trying to test me.

Every time I go through the kitchen, I can feel the sink undressing me with its chrome taps. Its basin is as wide and broad as a mustang. Not a 1986 Ford Mustang, but a 1987 Ford Mustang. I bet it would look good picking me up in one, too. God, I’m wet.

Wet because I just washed my hands. The chicken still needs to be marinated, and the mantelpiece needs to be dusted, and I haven’t taken my Valium yet. Or maybe I’ve taken too much Valium. I can’t stop washing down the pills with water. Water from the sink.

Last night, I blacked out from the lust and only served water for dinner. It turned out to be fine, because Thomas came home late having already eaten. When I asked him where he’d gone, he said, “I certainly wasn’t with my secretary Janet, honey. You have nothing to be worried about.”

He’s such a sweetheart. Thomas would never be unfaithful to me, but why can’t I help myself falling deeper and deeper into the drain? And why do I let the whirlpool stroke my hair so gently despite the guilt it brings me? And what will happen when the clock strikes 12 on December 31st, 1999?

Unfortunately, my resolve is only so strong. The front door opens, and Thomas tumbles in, lip-locked with a large-breasted chick.

The sink slides its nozzle out of me. It gurgles possessively.

The four of us have dinner together that night. Water—hot.