by Heather M. F. Lyke
"You used to have hygiene," my husband says. (No modifier: not even a "good" or "a semblance of".) I had not washed my hair in five days. In my defense, I had showered three days ago. I just hadn’t used shampoo, nor my pink scrubby, nor my rusting razor. There may have been a bar of soap involved. Then again, yesterday it had rained: that's how the earth showers. I got drenched walking from my car to the front door— that has to count for something. I point out, “but I did wash my orange jumper”— my bright prison jumpsuit that makes it easy to spot where exactly on the couch I'm lazing, the one I've been wearing for every episode of this pandemic. Now, come to think of it, it has been a few weeks since I did that load.
Heather M. F. Lyke is a writer living in southern Minnesota. By day, she teaches students Creative Writing and American Literature. On evenings and weekends, she creates. She builds things out of nothing: sometimes with paint, occasionally with fabric, but most often with words.