Twenty-three minutes into a hot shower, Nuvaya Kuhleen began her third soap suds-flinging pass at scrubbing away the painful memories of one of the worst Mondays she could remember. She urged the steaming water to do more, to reach further into her sadness to find its root, pull it, end it ahead of its natural decay. The soil nourishing the advance and retreat of her heart went unnoticed, covered in a river running hot and blind. She matched the liquid surrounding her with her own tears until none were left. She grabbed the frayed towel, ready to begin another end.
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