Lately our shower has been doing this thing where it shakes when it’s running. But not as soon as it goes on, first there’s a light buzzing in the walls then BOOM not quite like a volcano, but a seizure in the veins of the house. I think it knows I’m about to collapse the same way, too. I feel the buzzing inside of me, somewhere deep down where the emptiness sits. The pressure just builds up, I’m turning from cold to hot in a matter of seconds, and I’m losing the control I had. Maybe our shower just needs to bleed out the **** clogging all the nooks and crannies that nobody can see, maybe it’s freezing over somewhere in it’s bones, maybe it’s just crying out in its own, solitary way. Everybody uses it, washing off the dirt they’ve accumulated through their nightmares and the dark nights, warming their bodies to prepare for the frigid pulse of life outside these four walls. Everybody uses it but nobody knows what’s wrong with it. It’s been like this for weeks. The repair man said it should be fine soon. The professional should know, we say. It’s becoming an inconvenience, you know. We don’t like the rattling, we don’t know when it will burst. Still, everybody uses it. We have a countdown, the shower and I. Who will go first, who will shake the longest until we collapse, how many people will use us until we’re used up.