Flash Fiction 03 - Hand Me Down

 Hand me Down

The shirt hung on the floor, looking exactly like the sound of the water rippling in the bathtub. The fabric was thin and worn. So was the owner. I met his eyes and offered a smile to let him know this was no big deal.

"Sorry," he croaked. It was hard for him to talk. I shook my head, refusing his apology. I lathered the soap in the washcloth.

"Is the water warm enough? Too warm?" I wanted to make this seem ordinary, mundane to be giving my best friend a bath. Conversation would prevent either of us from focusing on the terror of what was happening. He smiled as best he could and shut his eyes. Everything was as fine as it could be.

"I saw Rob today," I said. I washed his feet, gently massaging the terrycloth against the soles. When we were younger, and healthier, we used to trade foot rubs. I wondered if he remembered. I wanted to ask, but the memories of what followed those youthful foot rubs was too intimate. "At the park," I added, bringing my focus back to my monologue.

I didn't like Rob. It wasn't that he wasn't a nice guy. He was always ready with a smile and a joke. And Rob had an incredible memory. He would ask about details you might have mentioned in passing three months ago, as if he had been contemplating nothing else since your last encounter.

Rob caught me noticing him. He was with some other men, all tan and shirtless. He was strong, handsome and practically glowed with a health that stood in defiance of the cigarette he held lazily between the two fingers of his left hand. There were no hard black spots on his back or legs. His muscles were not thin, the skin sliding over them as he moved was not dry and stretched. He nodded in my direction, leaving it to me. "I didn't get to talk to him," I said, cleaning my way up my friend's legs.

He raised a dripping arm from the tub and pointed at the floor. "From him," he rasped.

"I know," I said, not looking at the shirt.