If I were in a horror film, taking showers alone at home would be riveting:
The bathroom’s misty. Mirror’s fogged up, and while I wouldn’t notice it yet, there’d be letters in the mirror that read, “KILL” or something similar. I grab my razor to shave because I shave after I shower. There’s not enough light pouring in through dense curtain. and I always miss my damn knee if I can’t see. So I start shaving my legs, tapping the razor in the sink every few seconds, the sink filling up with hair particles and water because I keep the water running because I am a shit environmentalist even in the movies. I don’t notice the man behind the curtain—it ain’t Oz—how did he get in my shower, I just came from—no one knows, no one ever knows. But he’s there. He’s waiting for me to get an eerie feeling in my pit so that I whip back the curtains and he can slice through my neck meat. When I finally do notice him, I end up cutting myself with my razor—not on purpose! I die bleeding from my own hand (romantic).
In reality, I take showers alone because you’re not here. I don’t even shave anymore. Skype doesn’t reveal I haven’t shaved in months.