curled over a porcelain mouth, i let my dinner fall out. it's 9:33 p.m. and i think about saturday, when rain hit the pavement like firecrackers, the sky darker than the shadows behind the shower curtain.        i know there's a spider burrowed between those plastic folds. funny thing about deep spaces; they feel better when they're stuffed full. i think about how your fingertips made my skin feel soft and breakable, how your tongue was warm, about how my legs wouldn't stop shaking and you laughed, whispering, "you okay?"        well, there's this experience known as an aftershock. hands clutching cold tile,