We are bound on three sides by modular walls. We make our spaces our own with gaudy towels and loofahs on strings.
The man in twelve uses apple and cinnamon shower gel. The sweet steam drifts over the wall and makes my tummy growl.
The man in fourteen sings ’80s power ballads while he washes, making it hard for the rest of us to get on with things.
There’s a new woman in twenty. Smart, efficient, she wastes no hot water. I’d like to ask her for a drink but I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing.
Written for Friday Fictioneers using this photo prompt: