Friday the 69th

Nina just killed the movie and now the quiet apartment won’t stop feeling like the thing might still be waiting inside the pipes. She stands in the bathroom doorway, towel clutched around her chest, throat tight. When she asks her roommate to guard the door he says sure, but the moment she steps under the hot water the lights die and a hand slams the stall door. She bolts out dripping, hair plastered to her back, every bare inch of her on fire with fright and rage. “You scared the shit out of me,” she spits, water running down her breasts and stomach. Her fists are tight. “You owe me now—whatever I want—so get over here and prove it.” He freezes, pulse hammering, unsure if she’ll slap him or drag him under the stream before the apology even forms on his lips.