I hate used bar soap.

I hate bar soap in bathrooms, especially in the bathroom of an acquaintance’s or a friend’s house, at someone’s house during one of those awkward parties where I’m not really sure if I want to be there anyway.

It just sits there, grimy, waiting to slip through my fingers. It is used—it looks like it has been rubbed a few times, maybe that same night but probably some weeks before, when so-and-so’s mom visited, one of the only people to actually enter that bathroom and wash hands after peeing. It has that look: that it will do more harm than good, that I will somehow get dirtier instead of cleaner.

I especially hate picking up the soap, opting to believe it is the best thing to do, and finding a hair—it doesn’t matter where from—wrapping itself around my fingers.