Issue 46, Spring 1969
This is a street that tries our credulity. A caterpillar truck has just overturned, arching its middle into the air. The neighbors appear. The driver wriggles out unhurt. The rain didn’t stop. Frère Lubin flies down the adjacent street, gathering up his skirts several inches below the crotch. The debris is removed.
The tub occupies the far left-hand corner of the salle de bain. A shower attachment fits onto the main nozzle, and the shower head is suspended from a plastic hook on the wall by the circular formation at its head. When the door has been closed, a chair is revealed in the near left-hand corner and to its side on the wall three rows of towels hanging vertically. The seat of the chair is made of wicker, while its back consists of three parallel, slightly curved panels. The extreme right side of the room is taken up by a small sink and a large table next to it. Flat and round soaps lie at different points on the ledge at the back of the sink. The plug, attached by a chain just below this ledge, sits near some soap, a little off-center of the drain. At the end of the table nearest the sink, a short circular tin box stands apart from a jumbled assortment of combs, brushes, and stained pink plastic containers. Inside is a kind of mint candy known as pastilles. In the center of the room is a small white rug in the form of an oval.