[budapest]

An old Budapest flat filled with books, a high-ceilinged bathroom, a cast-iron tub. I plug the drain and turn the hot water faucet, and the gas heater hisses. I take off my dusty clothes and climb in. My legs are bruised from nights braced against adjacent seats in the bus or on the train. My thigh is burned and blistering from an accident with hot water four nights ago in Bamako. My back aches, and I’m just coming out of the loneliness of three days of anonymous travel. For a few minutes, my desires are winnowed to this single bath. I take my time. Above the tub, a clothesline has been pulleyed up toward the peeling ceiling. There is a bright washing-machine in the corner. Out in the kitchen, there is a man whose family has lived in this apartment since it was built ninety years ago. The mirror over the sink is distorted with age.