The one room with no pockets

The shower has no pockets. No free hand, no stepping out for a minute, nothing within reach. It's the one room in your home where the cigarette can't come with you. Most people wait out a craving and shower later. Go now, while it's still loud.

The cigarette made itself portable so it could tag along everywhere. The walk, the bus stop, the ten minute break. It followed you into almost every room of your life, but not this one. In here an urge needs a hand, a doorway and a decision. You just took all three away. It knocks for a minute. Then it runs out of things to do.

Make it warm. Leave the phone outside the door. Stand there longer than the job needs. Let the heat work on your shoulders and the back of your neck. That's where a craving likes to hold its tension. Whisper it with the water running. Lord, wash this hour clean. You're allowed to feel good while something inside you complains.

Step out into a different hour than the one you left. Skin warm. Head clear. The shouting is down to the memory of shouting. Nothing got decided and nothing got fought. It ran out of time while you were busy taking care of yourself. Towel off. The loudest part of your day just went down the drain.