The Height of Your Betrayal

Summary

Three months after Garrett and I signed the lease on our place, the showerhead in the master bath started mysteriously sinking.

I’m five-foot-eight. Garrett is barely two inches taller than me. But every three or four days, I’d step onto the subway tile in the morning and find the chrome head lowered to the level of my forehead.

The first time I brought it up, he didn't even look up from his iPad.

"The slide bracket must be loose," he said, turning a digital page. "Are you seriously getting paranoid over bad plumbing?"

So I dropped it. I stopped asking.