By Rochelle Roberts
At night a girl haunts my toilet. I see the shadow of her in the hallway, hear the bathroom door open, bare feet on cold tiles. I have never seen her face but in the mornings I find clumps of her hair, long black strands floating in the water like tentacles. She formulates into a shape, stepping cyclically around my head, seeping out of my mouth until she becomes someone I accommodate, a guest in my house. I begin to leave halved figs in the sink, place blankets and pillows in the bath before bed. I make sure there is enough toilet roll. I use the downstairs toilet so as not to disturb her. I wake to find the figs eaten, the blankets heavy with shower gel, footprints outlined in urine. I wonder if she has ever learned to use a toilet. She stays for two months, small disturbances seeping to the rest of the house. Her hair hangs from door knobs and windows. She begins to leave a trail of fig pulp, spots of yellow urine on the floor. Flies cluster round. I keep bleach in by bedroom, stumbling around, half asleep, to clean up after her. But one day she is gone. The traces of her disappear, the flies leave with her. I stop putting figs in the sink. I start to use the upstairs toilet again.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.
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